All the Difference
by Struck Upon a Star
Summary: Pre-Twilight, in canon. Chapters alternate between APOV and JPOV. Fic handles lots of back story from before they met, but also includes their first meeting, their first three years together, and the beginning of their time with the Cullens.
1. Alice: August, 1917

**A/N: So, here's the deal. This is my first fic, and I'm very insecure about my writing, so it was a struggle for me to even convince myself to post it. But I did. If it gets reviews, I'll write more, but if no one cares about it, my foray into the world of fanficion will end, nearly as quickly as it began. So if you like it, tell me. If not... meh.**

**Oh, and I'm sure you'll figure this out by reading, but the story starts when Alice and Jasper are both human and follows them through their transformations, through their wanderings, and up until they find each other and the Cullens. That's the idea anyway, but like I said before, if no one reads the story, I guess it'll just end with them as humans!**

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**Alice**

Father came home to see us a month ago. When he walked through the door Mother ran to him and cried into his chest while he held her and stroked her hair. When she finally lifted her head, I saw that her tears had stained his ugly tan uniform with patches of deep brown, and I wondered, briefly, why the army chose such an ugly color as tan to represent the United States in war. Surely our soldiers should have something more colorful, more fashionable to wear overseas, if for no other reason than to lift their spirits while they were away from home. But the way Father was standing, so straight and tall and _proud_ in his ugly tan, I knew that, for once, maybe fashion didn't matter, and that it was how you wore the thing that counted. And my father wore his uniform like a hero. And so I ran to him and nuzzled into his waist and stained that tan with tears of my own.

He only stayed with us for a week before he had to go back to the Front, but that week was the happiest week of my life. Father took us all into town and bought us pretty dresses and jewelry and things. He bought Cynthia all the ice cream she could eat, so that she almost made herself sick from eating so much. One night he even took us to a real live play. But none of the happiness I felt at these things compared to the true joy I felt when people would salute my father reverently, or thank him for his service. I was so proud to be his daughter then, and I never wanted him to leave.

But he did leave. We all clung to him that morning at the train station, and stained his uniform with our tears again. Cynthia even begged Father to take her with him. She had some vague notion that war was like a job that one went to in the morning and came home from at night; that if she could just go with him she could wait for him in a flat in Paris during the day and he would come home to her and read her a story before bed in the evening. This made us all smile a little, but the emotion didn't run deep, and when the train finally pulled away, the three of us girls stood huddled on the platform, sobbing into each other's dresses.

That was the first night I woke up screaming. Mother came running into my room, afraid that someone had broken into our house. I could tell that she was less than amused when I eventually calmed down enough to tell her it was just a dream, but she held me anyway and rocked me until the tears stopped like I was a child.

She said nothing about the occurrence in the morning, but the nightmare was in my mind the whole day. "Nightmare" was what I called it at first, because I had no other word for it. In reality, it had been a terrifying imitation of a dream—something much more like a horrifying memory than the fictitious stuff dreams are made of. I told myself I was too old to be scared by things like dreams, and that such fears were better left to the imaginative minds of younger children, like my Cynthia. By the afternoon, the intensity of the dream had lessened, and by the evening, I was mentally laughing at myself for having had such a reaction. And so I fell asleep that night, secure in my conviction that I was a silly girl with an overactive imagination, and that nothing but sweet dreams waited for me in my sleep.

That second night the dream was impossibly worse. It was clearer, more vivid, and more realistic. That night I could smell the gunpowder, the dust, the sweat of the trenches. I could hear the sound of every bullet that shot through the dust-blackened air. I could hear the groans of the wounded, and see the rotting corpses of the dead. And I saw the blood running from the wound in my father's side, staining over the faint pattern of brown spots made by my tears. Again, I woke up screaming.

For two weeks it was the same dream. When I finally told Mother about it, she told me that she had nightmares too, but that we mustn't let them get to us because Father was being so brave, and we needed to be brave for him at home. I wanted to explain to her that it wasn't _just_ a normal dream I'd been having, but I didn't know the words to tell her what it was. After the second night she stopped coming into my room when the screaming started, and so I screamed alone, into the darkness and heat of the Mississippi summer for two straight weeks.

At the start of this week, the third since Father was home, the dream changed. Suddenly, I wasn't seeing Father anymore—I was seeing myself sitting in the dining room, watching as my mother opened the front door. Outside, the wind howled and rain fell like angry tears against the doorstep. A man in an ugly tan uniform, which was now brown from the rain, handed my mother a telegram, and when she read it she sunk to her knees. When Cynthia ran down the stairs to see what was wrong, Mother gathered her to her chest and they both sobbed together. After what seemed like an eternity, Mother slowly turned to look at me with an expression that was both terrified and accusatory. That was where the dream ended.

Because of the change to my dream, there was no screaming that night. In the morning, I could tell from Mother's face that she was relieved—that she thought the worst of my nightmares were over. But I knew that the absence of screaming meant little—that the dreams were still just as intense, if not more so with the addition of horrified look on my mother's face. But I kept my mouth shut, just grateful that Mother no longer looked at me like I was ill.

But this morning, when I woke up, I knew that everything was going to change. I heard the rain pounding against our windows and thewind blowing through the cracks in our floorboards, and I just _knew_. I dressed quietly that morning, and went down to the dining room to wait. When someone knocked on our door, I didn't answer it, even though I was physically the closest person to it. When Mother got the telegram, she sank to her knees, and started sobbing. Cynthia joined her, and they embraced in the doorway while the wind and rain blew in from outside. I closed my eyes, because I didn't want to see it when it happened. I knew how Mother would look at me, and I couldn't bear to see it again—not when I'd been seeing it every night for a week.

And so here I sit, with my eyes closed, living my own nightmare. I am a monster. I am utterly alone.


	2. Jasper: January, 1863

**Jasper**

I hear my men outside the tent, drunk with the excitement of victory. Now that Galveston Bay belongs to us again, they're also, possibly, drunk with somethin' else—somethin' that arrived on the supply ships that came through this afternoon. I laugh to myself as one of the boys begins singin' "God Save the South." The rest of 'em join in, and I hum along to myself as I fasten the final buttons of my cumbersome jacket, infected with the gaiety of their collective mood.

When I walk out of the tent, they all go real quiet to salute me, but quickly resume their singin' as I put them "at ease." I've never really been comfortable with the idea of bein' saluted by men twice my age, so I try to quash that particular army formality whenever I can. No use in spoilin' their fun tonight anyways—they've earned a night of frivolity after their performance yesterday. Yesterday they fought like men, so today they get to act like boys. It's only fair.

I can still hear their signin' as I walk down along the shore. The Confederate Anthem spurs a deep pride in my heart, and hearin' my men sing it with such conviction, albeit _drunken_ conviction, makes my heart swell even more. _This war'll be over in a month_ I think to myself with certainty. I saw how my men fought yesterday. They were like an iron wall of determination. No Union fire broke our ranks as we held fast against their fruitless assaults. And now, Sherman and Lee can get access to much needed supplies from across the country, and even around the world. And it's all because of us Texans. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if they'd promote me to Lieutenant Colonel.

A deep, agonized groan breaks my reverie. It's a sound I have little experience with, as the skirmish yesterday was only the second action I've seen, but still a sound that I recognize immediately. It's not somethin' one can easily forget. It's the sound of the wounded, the sound of the hopeless, the sound of death. I freeze in the sand, not knowing quite what I should do. The disembodied voice groans again, and this time I follow its sound to the edge of the water just a few feet from where I'd stood. The man is lying flat on his stomach, his face buried in the sand. One of his arms is missin', and even in the darkness I can see that the back of his head is matted with blood. When I bend down to touch his one remaining shoulder, I can tell that his uniform isn't made out of the same dense, cheap, coarse stuff mine is made from, and so I know that he's Yankee.

Gently, I roll him over onto his back, and I see what I dreaded to see, but what I think I knew from the first time I heard his groan—he's only a boy, younger even than me. He's thousands of miles from home, and he's in pain, he's frightened, and he's dyin'. At my touch, he looks into my eyes, and whatever he sees in my expression causes his groans to turn into weepin'. He turns his head away, tryin' to be strong and hide what he probably thinks are shameful tears. But I've been around long enough, and seen enough from this world to know that there's no shame in cryin', so I sit down next to him on the sand and tell him lies: I tell him everythin'll be all right, and that the medic's on the way, and that he'll be back with his family soon.

After awhile he goes quiet and closes his eyes, and I figure that he's probably getting' pretty close to dyin'. The boy's hand is cold when I touch it, so I figure he must be in shock, and I pray that he doesn't feel a thing. Apart from the boy's breathin', and the gentle sound of the waves hittin' the shore, the night is eerily quiet. The men have ceased their noise, and have probably gone off in search of more entertainment. I suddenly realize that this boy and I, we're the only people out here, and for whatever reason, that thought makes me feel completely and irrationally alone and afraid. I know that my men are near me, and I know that there won't be any Union attacks anytime soon, but, my God, am I afraid. And for just a moment I have to fight the urge to stand up and yell out to anyone who might hear me, just so I don't have to be alone anymore.

But just as this thought crosses my mind, the boy begins to squirm beneath my hands. His eyes are open now, and they're starin' off at somethin' in the sky. His breathin' is shallow and labored, and I know his end is near. The fear inside me grows stronger with every gaspin' breath he forces into his lungs, so that soon, the fear is too much for me, and I cup my hands over my ears and shut my eyes real tight like I can block it out. As soon as I remove my hand from the boy's shoulder though, he starts screamin', and instinctively I reach out and cup my hand over his mouth.

I don't know what it is about him, but the minute my hand touches his lips, I become impossibly more afraid. The worst of it is that I don't even know what I'm scared of. In all my time in the army, I've never felt this damn scared, and now, holdin' this boy, I feel like I might start cryin' from fear. I grow angry at myself and at the boy for makin' me feel like this, and in my anger I push down harder on his mouth. The fear swells within me, but at least my anger has found an outlet. I shut my eyes and hold my hand over his mouth, pressing down harder with my palm every time he struggles.

After what seems like an eternity, I open my eyes again. The boy is still and cold beneath my hand, and I wonder how long I've been sittin' like that, tryin' to silence the screams that still echo in my head. The fear is gone—I felt it die inside me at the same time the boy struggled for the last time. But the deep, deep solitude that had accompanied the fear still lingers, as does a new, overwhelming feelin' of remorse.

I drag the boy's body to the ocean, and push it out to sea, knowin' that someone'll probably find it in the mornin'. When I can't see the body anymore, I begin vomiting into the waves as if I can expel the terrible loneliness and guilt that still flood my system. But these are not things that can be flushed out, and I know they'll stay with me long after the memory of the boy's screams finally fade.

When I'm finally stable enough to walk, I pull myself out of the ocean, and walk along the shoreline back to our camp. The moon shines down upon me, causing the star on my collar to reflect brightly in the darkness. I wonder if anyone sees it besides me. I wonder if anyone will be able to find me, and save me from myself.


	3. Alice: August to December, 1917

**Much thanks to my two totally awesome reviewers. Even two positive comments were enough motivation for me to write this next chapter. However, I'll need more incentive to keep going with the story, so if you like what you read, please leave a tiny little comment. Please?**

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**Alice**

There was no body to bury—nothing of him came home save for the telegram, and even that got thrown into the fire once Mother had read it so many times the ink started to smudge. She'd held my sister close to her as she watched it burn, wetting Cynthia's pretty brown curls with tears that shone like diamonds in the firelight. I watched from a distance, knowing I wasn't welcome in my family's private mourning.

Mother rarely looks at me now, but when she does her eyes tell me what her carefully composed mask of a face tries so desperately to hide: that at least part of her wishes that I could burn in that fire as well, as if the smoke from my ashes would somehow convince whatever god there was that I am sufficient to take my father's place. In her mind, I am responsible for his absence, and so perhaps I can also be the key to his return. Life for life; death for death. I can't argue with that logic.

To say that I feel responsible for Father's death is like saying that the Mississippi River is big, or like saying that stars are pretty. Understatements, all of them, and none of them come close to expressing the actual magnitude of what they are trying to describe. But whereas the River and the stars are miraculous in their grandeur and beauty, my guilt is only miraculous in its ability to cause a never-ending and overwhelming suffering within me, that eats at my very soul like a slow-burning fire. So maybe Mother will get her wish after all; maybe one day, finally, everything within me will be consumed.

I am very much alone now. I stopped looking for invitations to parties long before the little cards with my friends' addresses on them stopped coming. I knew they were only writing out of pity just as much as I knew that such distractions would do little to ease my sense of remorse. But, oh, how I used to _long_ for such invitations, and how I used to adore waltzing about town in my lace and silk and curls! What a selfish girl I had been! I suppose it's easy to be selfish when you've never felt a moment's pain in you're life. Such things mean little to me now. It's all I can do to drag myself from bed in the morning and throw on whatever article of clothing first touches my hands. I haven't looked in a mirror in weeks.

I read the paper every day, for there is little else to do, alone as I am in this house. The news is disturbing. The Announcements section is long with the names of soldiers dying on the Front. I find it hard to be proud of those men now—mostly I just feel pity for them and for their families. I wish this war would end. How many more people need to die before the world can make peace with itself?

Because I'm so used to seeing page upon page of the names of the deceased, I don't notice at first that the list is growing impossibly longer every day. By November, the list has almost doubled from what it was in August, and the names on it no longer begin exclusively with PVT., COL., LT., or some other military designation. Instead, I begin to recognize the names of my neighbors, my acquaintances, my friends. The headlines, too, change—though the war still occupies some section of the front page, an increasing amount of coverage is devoted to discussion of a deadly disease that is creeping across the nation. As I read about how the flu seems to target especially the young and healthy, my heart sinks. All our young men will die in war, and all our young women will die of this silent disease. What will be left of this world when it is over?

Two weeks before Christmas the nightmares begin again. This time, I see Cynthia going out with her friends to a Christmas party and returning home with a fever. Mother puts her to bed, but during the night the fever intensifies, and frightening new symptoms begin to take their toll on Cynthia's delicate health. The dream stops when men dressed all in white come to take her away. I've learned from my previous dreams that screaming does no good, so each night I bite down on my lips until they bleed. I tell myself that I'm saving my mother from worrying, but I can tell from her frightened eyes when she sees my scarred lips and the dark circles under my eyes that I'm fooling no one. I know she also notices how I hover about Cynthia now, how I rarely let her out of my sight, and I know that such behavior only concerns her more. Now, she's always trying to place herself in-between the two of us, as if she could shield my sister from whatever harm I'm preparing to inflict.

On Christmas Eve morning, I wake up to the sound of the door slamming shut, and I look out my window just quickly enough to see Cynthia skipping off down the street with one of her friends. This doesn't concern me much, but when Cynthia hasn't returned my suppertime, I grow worried and break the silent wall that exists between myself and my mother to ask where my sister has gone. Mother seems shocked to hear my voice—I can't remember the last time I've spoken aloud in her presence—but quickly regains her composure enough to inform me that Cynthia has gone to a party with her friends and won't be back until midnight. The guilt within me swells so, that even the air within my lungs is expelled from my body in order to make room for it. I can't get my breath back, though I try to make my lungs remember how to work. It's no use—without air, I finally succumb to the darkness that has been threatening to take me ever since my father's death.

I'd expected the darkness to be peaceful. Of course, I'd expected a lot of things from my life, and none of them had played out the way I'd planned. Instead of silent, remorseless darkness however, another dream begins. This time I see Cynthia lying on a hospital bed, looking so small and pale in the angry, artificially bright light of the room. My mother is there, holding her hand, and a doctor is there with her, touching Mother's shoulder. At first I think that I am seeing my sister's deathbed. But then the vision shifts, and I can see that both my mother and the doctor are smiling, and that Cynthia, too, though she is sickly pale and thin, is smiling weakly from her bed.

The vision shifts again, and suddenly the bright light of the hospital dissolves into darkness. The smell is horrible—like antiseptic and sweat and feces and a myriad other smells equally disgusting but unnamable, all mixed together. I am alone, wherever I am, and I am afraid. In the dream I start screaming aloud for anyone who might hear me, but despite the terrible, animal sounds that impossibly seem to be coming from my own throat, no one comes to me.

The screaming in my dream wakes me, and when I open my eyes I find that I am curled up in a ball on the dining room floor, most likely in the exact position I had fallen into when the blackness consumed me the night before. I can hear voices in the other room, and from the light hitting the walls from the windows, I gather it is morning. Had I known that this was the last time I would see the sun, I might have looked at it a little harder. But as it is, I shut my eyes to it, concentrating instead on what the voices are saying around me. I hear Cynthia's coughing and labored breathing, and I hear a man's voice telling my mother that she has to be hospitalized. My mother agrees, but somehow seems hesitant to leave with her just yet. I want to scream at her, to tell her to get my sister to the hospital as quickly as possible, because my dream told me that that's where she'll be safe. But before I can find the energy to get up off the floor, a soft tap sounds at the door.

"Finally," Mother says, audible relief in her voice. I hear the door open, and I hear Mother speaking in quiet whispers as she lets whoever it is into our house. I hear footsteps coming into the dining room, and so I open my eyes, suddenly ashamed that strangers should see me like this.

"Is this her?" a tall man dressed all in white asks from the doorway.

"Yes," Mother answers, not meeting my questioning gaze, "This is Mary. As you can see, the situation is… unavoidable."

The tall man takes a cautious step towards me and kneels down so his face is closer to mine. He turns his head to inspect me, looking deep into my eyes, and then straightens up and turns back around to face my mother. He scratches his head.

"Are you sure about this, ma'am? I mean, she can't be hardly thirteen years old. Are you sure there's not another way?"

Mother turns her face to me for the first time. "She's sixteen," she corrects. I see a flash of pity in her eyes as she looks at me, and for a moment, I'm her daughter again—not the monster that killed her husband and infected her child. But all pity disappears immediately when Cynthia coughs from the other room, and groans out my mother's name. Mother looks back at the tall man, full of determination. "There's no other way. I have to protect my daughter." And just like that, there's only one of us. Cynthia is her _daughter _now, and I am the demon that is torturing what's left of her family.

Mother leaves the room, and the tall man bends down to me once again. "Mary," he says my name softly, soothingly, "I'm going to take you to the hospital now. You're very sick, but we're going to try and make you better." Despite his ambiguous words, I'm not confused. I know where I'm going, I've _seen_ where I'm going. But I'm not appalled, and I'm not outraged, and I'm not even afraid, though that will come later. Instead I'm relieved. I'll sit in that reeking, disgusting hole for the rest of my life if it will keep my family safe. And so I smile—an action, which, for the first time causes a hint of confusion and concern to cross the tall man's face. He doesn't dwell on that though, for which I am grateful—I want to get out of this house as quickly as possible so that I can't hurt them anymore. He picks me up effortlessly in his arms, and I close my eyes so that I don't have to see my mother's back as I pass her in the hallway—I know she won't look at me to say goodbye, and I hope she knows that no goodbyes are necessary. I'm going away to protect them, and for that, there should be no sorrow and no lingering farewells.

But as I feel myself being loaded into the carriage, I say my own private goodbye. I say goodbye to Mary Brandon, hoping that, if there is a god, he will spit on Mary's soul before sending her straight to hell.


	4. Jasper: February, 1863

**A/N: I guess I'm writing more for myself than for anyone else... But I find that I can't get these two out of my head. So I'll just keep writing until their voices stop keeping me up at night. If you do happen to read this, please, please, PLEASE drop me a note to know what you think. If you're a writer as well, you know how much feedback means. If you're not a writer... well, I'd compare comments to presents on Christmas morning. They're lovely.  
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**All that being said, I should warn whatever brave readers have made their way to this page that isn't my best chapter. For whatever reason, Alice is currently easier to write than Jasper is. This chapter was particularly difficult because I dislike having to work with text that Stephenie Meyer has already written. I'd rather use her general outline and supply my own words. However, I'm trying to remain as true to canon as humanly possible, so I have to work around what she's already written. I should warn my readers, if any of you are out there, that things are going to be dark for a long while. Though we all know Jasper and Alice end up finding each other and, consequently, true happiness later in their lives, their stories up until that point are not happy ones. So, be prepared for lots of depression and pain. And remember, you can't know true joy without a memory of true pain to compare it to.**

**As always, Stephenie Meyer owns everything, and I'm merely filling in the holes of her brilliant, but incomplete universe.**

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**Jasper**

I didn't even hear the shot. But I guess that's what they say—you hear every one 'cept the one that finally gets you.

The mind does strange things when it's faced with inevitable death. Suddenly, the world narrows down and thoughts become random, scattered, as the mind concentrates only on forcin' the lungs to breathe against their will. For the longest time, the only thing I can think is _I'm dying, this is how I'm going to die_ over and over again. I fight to keep my eyes open, afraid that if I close them, they may remain closed for good.

I vaguely remember prayin' that this would happen. The night on the beach with the Yankee boy had forced me to stare my soul in the face, and what I had seen there had been dark and vicious. I recognized in myself terrifyin' tendencies towards domination and brutality that I had somehow been blind to in my youth. My family owned slaves, and though I could feel their pain and their shame and their fear, I had forced them into submission, simply because I could. In the few skirmishes that I had taken part in, I killed men remorselessly, not because it was entirely necessary, but because I happened to be good at it. I knew I had a knack for manipulating people, and I used that talent to my advantage, often conning things out of my friends and fellow soldiers that they could little afford to lose. Everyone I'd ever known had fallen prey to my ruthless dominance at one point or another—everyone I'd ever known had been my victim.

Seein' my soul in this black light had made me yearn for death. For weeks I'd been contemplating a way to die. Only yesterday I'd settled on a soldier's death—I'd lead the first charge at the next battle, and just run headlong into the Union ranks until someone twisted their bayonet into my chest. I remember hopin' the blade would be dull—such was no more than I deserved. Up until now, I'd wanted death as penance for my sins. But right now, face to face with it, death terrifies me.

Time passes. I have no way to measure how much time, since the only thing I can be absolutely certain of is my scattered, gasping breathin'. But which each passing breath, it becomes easier to convince myself that I won't die, and so my mind slowly begins to relax its tight hold on my body. I can feel again. I wish I couldn't.

At the first battle of Galveston I was hit with grapeshot from the Union boats. It felt like little sparks of flame searin' into the flesh of my right leg, goin' deeper and deeper as they burned. The ones that had hit the muscle were the most painful, and still, on cold nights, it's like those little embers flare up again causin' my calf to constrict and cramp in pain. At the time, and each time the wound festered afterwards, I was confident in my assessment that I had survived the worst pain a human could ever experience. I had been shot, after all, and what could be worse than that?

Now I know _exactly_ what's worse than that. I had originally thought that it had been one single bullet that had pierced my neck, but as my mind loses its protective control and the pain begins to seep through, I know that I was wrong. The grapeshot in my leg is the only real pain I'd ever experienced in my life 'till now, and thus is the only thing I can compare this new pain to. This new pain is a thousand times worse. I'd heard stories, myths I thought, that Union soldiers were developing new, advanced, deadly weapons that could stun a man from hundreds of yards away. I'd leant no credence to these rumors 'till this minute. Now, with this new excruciating pain that seems to be creepin' through my very veins, anything, any horrible story that I had every heard, seems possible.

I want to touch my neck, as though maybe, if I can stop the bleedin', the pain will subside. But when I attempt to move my hand, something stops me. My eyes are clouded over with tears, so at first I can't make what's pinnin' me to the ground. I hear a voice, a female voice, but my mind can't work hard enough to understand her words. My troubled mind wrestles with the idea that she might be an angel, but her touch upon my arm is too real, to substantial, to _cold_ to be sent from heaven.

I blink back the tears, tryin' to make out the form in front of me. She's beautiful, though "beautiful" surely isn't a strong enough word for someone like her. Her thick, dark hair flows softly over the pale skin of her chest, and her movements as she watches me are graceful and divine. She smiles at me with a coquettish grin, and even through the pain somethin', some memory clicks inside me. Hers is not a figure a man is likely to forget, and I'm sure that I've seen her before. She bends her head down to my chest, listening to my heart, and then straightens back up to look into my eyes. When I see the red of her irises, a recent memory flashes in my head of three women, all of them unimaginably beautiful, staring at me across the dark night. I scrutinize the face above me now, making my fragile mind work to remember what had happened in the moments before the shot that I never heard.

Women, three of them, huddled together in the darkness. What had their conversation been about? I can't remember now. But I do remember how the two blonde ones left quickly, more quickly than I thought possible, leavin' the infinitely more beautiful brunette alone with me in the dark. She had spoken to me then, in a voice that reminded me of birds and wind and runnin' water.

"_What is your name, soldier?"_

"_Major Jasper Whitlock, ma'am."_

"_I truly hope you survive, Jasper. I have a good feeling about you."_

How had she known? How did she know I was going to be shot? Was she workin' for the enemy? Had she merely been a diversion so that the Union soldiers hidden in the night could take me down, an unsuspectin' and easy target? But she had made to kiss me. I remember that now. She had stood on her toes so she could reach me, and just before I felt the pressure from the bullet in my neck, I had felt her lips brush my skin. How had the shot missed her when she was so close?

Maria, I remember her name now, laughs at whatever expression crosses my face as I struggle to make sense of my memories. She bends down to my ear and whispers softly, "You're going to live, Major." I wonder how she can be so sure. My veins are burnin', my breaths are getting shorter and more forced, and I can feel my heart beatin' within my chest faster than I ever thought possible. Surely this is the end. Surely I am dying.

But Maria doesn't seem to think so. Quicker than my fragile mind can comprehend, she takes me in her arms and we are flying through the night. As we travel, the remnants of my scattered thoughts collect to shout at me that this isn't possible, that the person who carries me so swiftly in her arms couldn't possibly lift me, let alone run with me. She's a woman, she's smaller than I, she's weaker than I. And surely, _surely_ we can't be moving so quickly! No human can possibly travel this fast!

At the word "human," it finally all make sense. Of _course_ no _human_ can run like this. Of _course_ no _human_ could carry me in her arms as though I were a child rather than a fully-grown man. The red eyes, the seductive smile, the impossible beauty—I had thought she was an angel when I first opened my eyes to her cold touch, but now I understand that God would waste no angel on me. I've killed too many people, I've witnessed too many terrible things. If anyone or anythin' is comin' for me, it's surely a demon sent to usher me to hell.

_You knew this was comin'_ I remind myself. _This was the price you agreed to pay when you signed your life away to go to war. How many men did you expect to be able to kill before God took his revenge?_

Of course I knew that there would be a price, I hadn't expected to kill men without consequences. But when I signed that little piece of paper that made me a soldier, I'd imagined that I might get to live much more of my life before I had to resign myself to a soulless eternity. But these past weeks I've done little but contemplate my own death, so that I find myself oddly prepared for eternal damnation. All my goodbyes were said long ago when I left my family to join this endless war, and even those were said mostly in my head, since I hadn't wanted to feel my parents' pain when I told them of my plans for glory and victory of war. Of course, at the time, I'd imagined I'd return to them alive, so my goodbyes were transitory and superficial. For one fleetin' moment, I wonder how much greater their pain will be when I don't come home.

But I soon realize that such thoughts are useless now. The pain that rages in my body gets stronger and stronger, and I know that, whatever regrets I have, the time for makin' amends has passed me by. I close my eyes as we fly towards whatever hell waits for me. Somewhere behind me, Jasper Whitlock disappears into the night.


	5. Alice: March, 1920

**A/N: I hate anachronisms. A lot. Stephenie Meyer has a few in her Twilight universe, so I have to go (ever so) slightly out of canon to correct one of them in this chapter. Stephenie has stated that Alice's hair is so short because it was shaved off for electroshock therapy. Unfortunately, such therapies weren't used in the U.S. until the 1930s, so they wouldn't have been used on poor little Alice. I came up with a different reason for her hair in this chapter, though I admit that shock therapy would have been more fun (in a sadistic way) to write about. **

**Thanks to my reviewers and those offering encouragement. I know people are impatient to see Alice and Jasper find one another, but we have to get all their back-story out first. I can tell you that Alice will see the Cullens in a vision in her next chapter, and will begin to see Jasper shortly after that. Four Alice chapters from this one, they will meet. Hopefully y'all'll stick with me until then.**

**As always, I grudgingly admit that Stephenie Meyer owns everything and I own nothing. *sigh***

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**Alice**

These are the reasons I know he is an angel.

I never saw him coming. During the day, I'm careful never to look at the faces of the people who handle me, who feed me, who watch me. I don't want to see the disgust and fear they see when they look at my soiled body and soiled soul. But at night, I see them clearly in my dreams, and their faces are as defined as if I were seeing people I've known all my life. What's more, I see their families, their friends, their lovers—I see people they will meet and things they will do. I dream about myself as well. I dream about who will bring me food in the morning, who will take me to my therapy, who will inject me with drugs that make me lethargic and weak, and who will check on me to see if I'm still breathing before I go to sleep at night. I know if I'm going to be beaten, or if I'm going to fall ill. I see all these things, and yet, my angel, I never saw _him_ coming. I felt his presence for the first time on a brutally hot summer night. I was covered with and reeking of sweat, and the air was so humid and stifling that I was struggling to breathe. Suddenly, the angel was there, kneeling at my bedside, and though I had never seen him before—not even in my dreams—his presence was oddly comforting. He rested his cool palm against my forehead, and when I didn't struggle, he sat on my filthy mattress and gathered me in his arms. The incredible comfort of being so close to his cool body eased my breathing, and, finally, lulled me to sleep. He's come every night since then.

On my thirteenth birthday, my father woke me at midnight to give me the present he had been hiding from me for weeks. It was my first piece of adult jewelry—a silver necklace with a beautiful stone pendant hanging from it. As he clasped it around my neck, he gave the stone a name: he called it "amber." I had never seen such a beautiful stone before, and I told him so. He laughed, and told me that it only looked so beautiful because it was around my neck. And, truthfully, the stone did look charming set against my deep brown hair and my pale skin. That was the best gift anyone ever gave me, and the color of that stone is still the most wonderful color I can imagine. And so I know that he's an angel, because that is the color of his eyes. And, though I thought my complexion complemented the pendant fairly well, nothing compares to the way my angel's amber eyes look set against the milky-white skin of his perfect face. Only an angel could possibly look so divine.

My angel gives me gifts too. One night he saw a drawing I had made with my finger in the dirt on the floor. He seemed to know without asking that the figure I had drawn was my mother, and he didn't question me about her. Instead, he asked me about the dress I had clothed her in, and I told him that it was something I'd designed on my own. The next night he brought me a pencil and some paper so that I didn't have to draw in the dirt anymore. Whenever I finish a sketch of a blouse or a skirt or a dress, he takes it away to keep it safe so that the rats can't get at it, and brings me more paper to replenish my supplies. He also brings me pictures and drawings from magazines and newspapers so that I can see what the world looks like without me in it. It's brighter, more colorful than I remember. The only colors I seem to see anymore are black and white, and those always in contrast: the shadows of the hospital employees against the artificial white light of the therapy rooms. My pale skin against the dirty, shapeless garment that passes as my clothing. My angel's face against the dark.

Every three months they shave all my hair off because of the lice. It's terrible—it's like they take all that's left of my humanity every time the razor brushes against my head. Each night after they do it, I lie on my filthy mattress, hearing the bugs and mice and rats crawling in the straw beneath me, and I grip my naked head and sob. I'm bald, and dirty, and surrounded by my own filth, but still, on such nights, he sits on the mattress with me, holds me in his cool arms, and tells me that I'm beautiful. Only an angel could find a person beautiful when they look and smell as I do.

Of course, what probably helps, with the smell at least, is that angels don't need to breathe. I didn't know this about angels, not at first, because he always put on a show of breathing around me. But he came to me one night after I had been to what my doctors call _hydrotherapy_. I'd seen in my dreams what I look like after such sessions, and I didn't want him to see me soaking wet, shivering, and bleeding from where the sharp ice they put in the bath with me had cut little lines across my skin. Somehow he knew what I would look like too though, so that night he brought me a clean, thick blanket, and he brought gauze and antiseptic to treat my wounds. And as he held me in his arms while I sobbed into his chest late into the night, I realized that I couldn't hear his lungs working. I couldn't hear his heart either. None of this really surprises me. One doesn't need such things in heaven.

From heaven one can see the whole world. What's more, one can see all time—what has happened, what is happening, and what will happen. I know this because my angel knows everything about me. He knows who I was before I came to this place, he knows all about my family, and he knows what I did to them. But somehow he also knows that I didn't mean to do it and that I would take it back if I could. He knows, too, that I left Mary Brandon far behind me, and so he knows better than to call me by that name. When I arrived at this place, the doctors gave me a number, MAB1917, and so that became my name. The irony of it doesn't escape me. Mab, the fairy who haunts dreamers as they sleep, showing them that which they most desire, but that which they can never have. Yes, I know something of such dreams. I hate the name, and I told my angel so. So he suggested a new name. He told me that Alice means "nobility," and that, even though I can't see it, I am noble and good. He said that the name can also mean "truth," which suits me well since I am nothing if not truthful—even if the truth of my dreams sometimes means pain and death. So even though Alice is part of the name my parents gave me, I'm not ashamed to call it my own now that my angel has explained to me what it means. As for him, I simply call him "angel."

The name I give him makes him laugh, and his laughter sounds like the way silk feels: it's soft, and light, and beautiful. It creeps into my blackened soul, and I find that I can't resist laughing along with him. The first time I laughed out loud it surprised me: I'd thought that that part of myself had died long ago. But his laughter, even his smile, is infectious and utterly resistant to the depth of the darkness in my soul. What's more, I find that laughing with my angel makes me strong—makes me able to survive though survival once seemed impossible for me in this place. My angel can call me out of any darkness simply by smiling at me across the night.

And I know, one day, he will rescue me from this darkness completely. I know he hopes that I will get better on my own—that my dreams will stop and that the doctors will see that I am cured. He hopes that I will be able to return to my family, and that I will live a happy, normal life. But this one thing I know better than my angel—there is no going back to what I was before. Those ties have been severed, completely and irrevocably. I am no longer anyone's daughter, anyone's sister, or anyone's friend. What's more, my dreams have shown me how I'm going to die. In the dream, my hair is the length it normally gets just before they shave it all off again and there is a deep purple bruise on my face from where one of the hospital workers hit me when I cried during therapy. I have such a bruise on my face now, and in two days I'm meant to have my head shaved, so I know it can't be long now. In the dream I feel myself being carried from my cell out into the blackness of night. The air is crisp and oh-so-clear in my lungs, which have suffered greatly from all the years of breathing the dank, stale air of my cell. The wind is warm and quick against my skin, and though I can't see who carries me, I know it is my angel because we are traveling far faster than any mortal could possibly run. I am set down on the wooden floor of an empty room, and then everything goes black.

I know it's a sin to wish for death, but hopefully, if there is a god, he will grant me this excitement I feel at the prospect of finally being released from my prison. I've been a torture and a burden to those I love, but surely my time here has been penance enough for those sins that were committed unintentionally. And, after all, I have an angel, so someone, somewhere must know that I never meant anyone any harm.

A soft gust of cool air blows into my cell: my angel is here again.

_Please, please let tonight be the night he takes me away._


	6. Jasper: May, 1901

**A/N: Gasp... a twofer? Indeed. Unfortunately, Jasper's voice has eluded me once again--it's exceedingly difficult to pin down. But I try. Mostly, I wanted to get this chapter out of the way so I could get back to Alice, which is weird 'cause Jasper is probably my favorite character in the series. Oh well. I hope this chapter is okay for all you Jasper lovers out there! Oh, and I wanted to thank my reviewer for the day. It makes me so VERY happy to open my e-mail and see that someone has read my story. So thanks a lot, and I hope you'll continue to read!**

**Unfortunately, none of this belongs to me. It's all Stephenie Meyer's. **

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****Jasper**

The summer I turned eleven was the hottest summer I can remember. There was a drought that year, and over half our cattle died, along with most of our other livestock. The horse my daddy had given me on my birthday the year before died one night while I was sleepin'. Daddy found him in the mornin'. The ground was too hard and dry to bury him, so daddy and a couple of his friends dragged my horse 'bout a mile away from the house and left him in an open field so the stench couldn't reach the house. They were back 'fore I even woke up. But it didn't take me too long to figure out what had happened, and I set off to find my horse's body. I didn't know what I was gonna do when I found it, but the horse was mine—I loved him, and I couldn't just let him rot out there in the sun all alone. But I was young, and I didn't know the endless fields and plains around my house well, so I got lost. I wandered in that unbearable heat without food and without water for three days. When someone finally found me, I was lyin' naked in the burnin' sun, pretty near dyin' from exhaustion and dehydration.

I'd thought thirst didn't get much worse than that.

I was wrong.

Thirst is all I feel now, though I no longer desire water, or alcohol, or any other liquid that used to quench my thirst in my previous life. Instead, this immeasurably stronger thirst manifests itself in three relatively equal desires: blood, battle, and lust.

Of course, my blood thirst is of the most immediate importance, since blood is what keeps me alive. It also happens to be the easiest thirst to satiate. That first night, when Maria took me on my first hunt, I remember havin' no concept of what a human was. I was like a baby, drinkin' his first bottle of milk: I didn't know who or what it came from, I only knew that it was good. I killed three humans that night without even registerin' the fact that my own teeth had made the gruesome wounds I saw on their bodies once I'd drained them. To me, it was as though they had never been alive, or if they had, their sole purpose in livin' and breathin' was to let me drink their blood.

Human blood still has the same pull for me now, all these years later. But eventually, I did begin to remember bits of the life I'd had before. It was only when I remembered the way air felt in my lungs, or the way my heart sounded in my chest that I began to feel even the smallest ounce of pity for those who eventually served to satisfy my hungers. But no trace of pity, no ounce of compassion could ever stop me from drinkin' the crimson liquor I need to live. Blood makes me strong; it keeps me alive. That humans must suffer so that I might live is, simply put, unfortunate.

It's hard for me to believe that I was once as fragile and breakable as the humans I kill. Maria has explained it to me countless times—how she found me on the street, how she sensed what she called my "charisma," and how she had made me like her—impossibly beautiful, infinitely powerful, and _immortal_. Had I been unsure about my transformation into a vampire when I first awoke to this life, such reservations surely disappeared the moment she informed me that death was all but impossible for our kind. I had been afraid of goin' to hell. Immortality made it seem like hell wasn't an option anymore.

Of course, she left out a few things that night, favorin' a truncated version of the duties of our life in recognition of the blood thirst that was causin' my throat to burn. But by the next day I was able to recognize and give a name to the hostile atmosphere that surrounded me. I'd realized the moment that I opened my vampire eyes to my new life that I could sense the emotions of those around me. That first night, and nearly every night since, the emotions have been the same: edginess, anticipation, passion, anger, rage. The more of us that are in the same area, the greater these feelin's are. And thus is the nature of my second thirst: the thirst for battle.

Just like blood, fightin' keeps me alive. Maria had promised immortality, but I found out quickly that immortality, like all else in life, comes at a cost. In this particular instance, the cost is measured in vampire lives. The harder and better I fight, the longer I live. Again, that others should die in my quest to preserve my own immortality is regrettable. But it is the only way I know to stay alive—and my vampire self-preservation instincts are far greater than my comparable human instincts ever were. I fight well so that I can live to fight another day.

I find that my ability to sense the emotions of those around me is especially handy in a battle. I can sense the amount of rage and determination in the vampire that I'm fightin' against, so I know just how much rage and determination I need to summon from within myself to ensure that I emerge the victor. I'm not perfect in my calculations nor in my accuracy, and I have the scars to prove it. When I was first born into this life, I remember lookin' at myself in a puddle of water on the street and marvelin' at my own astonishing beauty. Survivn' for so long has taken a terrible toll on my physical perfection. Now I'm careful to avoid all reflective surfaces so that I never have to see the pattern of crescent-shaped scars that stands out like scales on my skin. I suppose it's true that the monster always reveals itself in the end.

I know that my ravaged body makes others wary of me—I can sense it when I walk amongst my allies and they tense in an equal measure of both reverence and fear, or when a newly-turned vampire awakes to see me standin' over him and his first, animalistic instinct is to shy away from the attack that my battle-scars indicate is comin'. And I know that my scars are the reason why Maria never looks at me on those rare occasions when she allows me to satisfy my third desire with her in her private chambers. After those first few contests I won by fightin' against my allies to prove my strength, she would thrust a particularly delicious human at me in commendation of my victory. But I could feel somethin' growin' in her, even then, that wasn't the same as the anger and rage that I normally felt emanating from my peers. It was only after that first battle of Monterrey—a decisive victory by all accounts—when she took me into her chambers and began to press her body desirously against mine that I was able to put a name to what she felt for me: lust. My skill and competency on the battlefield made her long for me, and I couldn't deny the attraction I felt to her cunning and meticulous ability to put together an army in pursuit of the power she so desired. Of course, the fact that she was astoundingly beautiful only strengthened the intensity of the attraction.

I never _had_ any women when I was human, preferrin' instead to devote all my faculties to the glory and honor of war, and figurin' that the women would come later. Desire is an instinct as deeply rooted as survival though, and that first night we came together I took all of her again and again and again. Her skin was silky and flawless beneath my touch, and her breath was sweet and intoxicating as she covered my body with passionate kisses. The fulfillment of my lustful thirst was more gratifying than I thought possible, and I marveled at our ability to fulfill that desire ceaselessly throughout the night. That was the first and only time this particular thirst would be satiated so completely for me.

As the undeniable proof of my many battles began to mount, Maria grew more and more distant from me. She closes her eyes completely now on the rare occasions when she rewards me with her body instead of blood, and I feel her mentally recoil in disgust every time she happens to touch one of my scars. If my lustful thirst weren't so strong, I'd stop goin' to her. But it is strong, and even though it's never fully satisfied, a night with Maria soothes it into a tolerable submission.

Though we no longer are able to satisfy each other sexually, Maria and I are still loyal to one another in other ways. In fightin' to keep myself alive, I keep her alive as well. My victories are her victories. Battles these days are fought mostly in the name of personal vendettas or revenge. Maria has made a lot of enemies. I am her shield, her protector—if I were to die in battle she would surely fall soon thereafter. I defend her from her enemies, and even her allies on the rare occasions that members of our army turn against us. She gave me life, and so I fight to keep her alive. Life for life; it's only fair.

This is the only way I know how to survive—livin' from day to day, from desire to desire, from thirst to thirst.

But in moments such as these, in between feedings, in between battles, in between sexual gratifications, I wonder if this is really all there is to life. I am alive, but am I really livin'? I vaguely remember that there were other elements to my human existence that gave life more meaning. I forgot the words for such things long ago, but I'm almost certain that they existed. Sometimes I hide in the shadows and watch humans and try to understand what it is that they are feelin' when they touch one another, or when they look into each others' eyes. Somehow they're able to live without killin' each other, or without even hatin' each other. Of course, I do remember that war was a part of human life, but it was the exception, not the rule. Their emotions aren't goverened by any of the negative thirsts that permeate the atmosphere around me when I'm close to my vampire allies. The bonds that hold humans together are not forged from fear or necessity, but from somethin' far greater, far stronger, far more… permanent.

Whatever binds these humans to one another is not somethin' that I've ever felt within my little army, so it may not exist for our kind. But if thirst—for blood, for battle, for the flesh—is all our kind has to live for, is life for us really worth livin' at all? Is it really worth fightin' for?


	7. Alice: Late March, 1920

**A/N: So, this is a little longer than I'm used to. Honestly, I wanted to end it when Alice was turned, but I promised y'all some Cullen visions, so I kept going. The vision is brief, but it's there. The pre-transformation bit is really important to me, mostly 'cause I think the vampire who turned Alice got kind of a bad rap in Stephenie Meyer's series. I wanted to show that he really did try to help Alice out and explain everything to her--I mean, obviously he cared enough for her to try and save her life, so it's pretty doubtful (to me at least) that he'd just change her without explaining things to her or trying to steer her in the right direction. So I tried to clear his name a little here--I hope that's okay!**

**Thank you to all who read this, and especially to those who take the time to comment. It means so much to me... you have no idea.**

**Oh, and I don't own anything--this pretty cool cat named Stephenie Meyer does.**

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Alice**

_Please slow down, please slow down_ I mumble into my angel's chest. In my dreams, flying through the night like this hadn't seemed so… frightening. But just as my angel had been absent in my dreams, so too had the proximity of the buildings, the debris, and the few pedestrians on these dark streets been obscured from my vision. I know we are traveling so quickly that to any watching human eye, we seem only to be a flash of light, a gust of wind. But I can see the obstacles in our way clearly as we near them, and I can tell that we are cutting things close… _much _to close. _Please slow down, please slow down_ I beg again. But my angel only clutches me tighter and hurries on.

He talks to me while he flies, but I struggle to make out the words. I'm weak and I'm tired, and I just want to reach the hardwood floor that I've seen in my dreams so that I can begin the sleep that I will never wake from. Still, I work hard to understand my angel's words. After all, he's done so much for me, and now my attention and concentration is all I have to give him in return. I give it gladly, even if it takes all that I have left.

"Try to remember that you were once one of them--"

I was once one of them? It takes my confused mind a moment to understand that he must mean the workers at the hospital—the ones who beat me, and tortured me with useless therapy, and who left me in that cold, black room to die. They were monstrous tormenters, but I had been a monster too. Yes, I had been like them. I had inflicted senseless pain on a family that I professed to love, and the fact that I hadn't meant to do it in no way erased my guilt. Truly, I was once a beast as well.

"--and that every life is valuable, and that every person deserves a chance to live."

_Really, angel? Do even I deserve a chance to live? _I know my angel's answer, even as I think the question. Throughout the past two years, my angel has been my constant guardian, my constant companion in that dark cell. He has looked into my eyes, my mind, my very soul, and seen something there worth saving, worth loving even. He's an angel, after all, and he could have just killed me for my sins that first night, and condemned me to hell. But he believed in life, and so he let me keep mine—and in our time together he taught me to be good, and to be strong, and to feel love again. And so I can't argue with him when he says that every human deserves such a chance.

"You must never desire their blood, even though you will want to take it--"

Ah, now I understand what my angel is doing—he's preparing me for death. My angel has resurrected my soul, and it is no longer the horrid, black, emptiness that it once was. My angel is asking me to forgive those who were cruel to me during my life, and I find that doing so is easier than I would have thought. Suffering in that hospital was my penance for every wrong I ever committed, and those who hurt me there were merely instruments in the plan for my salvation. They're already forgiven.

"--you must find a way to love them, even if it pains you to do so."

Love? Love is different from forgiveness, and infinitely more difficult to grant. In my life, I've loved three people: my mother, my father, and my sister. In my life, I've managed to ruin three lives, all which belong to the three people I loved. It's hard for me to imagine loving someone now, because apparently my love is inextricable from my capacity to inflict pain. Of course, I love my angel dearly, and nothing terrible has happened to him yet. But I'm not sure bad things can really happen to messengers from heaven, so I don't know if his continued safety is a result of divine intervention, or merely extremely good luck. All the same, I'm not sure if I can truly _love_ those people who watched me suffer for the last two years of my life. I remember the way they sneered at me as they pushed my head under the icy water; I remember their laughter when one of their assaults made me bleed. But since I have been granted this divine love of an angel, perhaps I can find it within myself to wish the same for them. Perhaps.

"I will try, angel," I whisper against his chest. I feel him nod—this answer seems sufficient for him. And then he says the strangest thing of all.

"I'm sorry."

Why on earth is he _apologizing_ to me? What could he have possibly done that causes him to whisper that sentiment with such regret, with such self-loathing and disdain? This night, he washed my dirty body, he clothed me in new and wonderfully clean clothes, and rescued me from my dark prison. What's more, he has all but promised me an afterlife in whatever heaven he comes from. He has given me all his care, all his devotion, and all his love. I'm safe and whole because of him, and soon I know I will be at peace. Why, then, does his voice sound as though his silent heart is breaking?

I have never had to comfort him in the past—it has always been he, holding me as I sob, reassuring me when I want to admit defeat, saving me when I need to be saved—so I'm not entirely sure what to do. I settle for what he always does when my pain gets to be too much. I reach up and touch his face, which is cold as ice against the feverish skin of my hand. He looks down at me when my fingers meet his face (which, admittedly, frightens me, since we are still flying impossibly fast), and I meet and hold his eyes with my gaze.

"I love you," I tell him. But my intended comfort has the opposite effect. His amber eyes grow darker, and he turns his head upwards and groans at the sky.

And so it's happened again: my love has hurt the one person I can't bear to see in pain. I lower my head in shame as we continue to travel in silence.

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The air around me is lighter, and I know that the sun will be rising soon. We left the populated city streets hours ago, and now we are running through forests and fields that I have never seen before. I can't even be sure we're still in Mississippi. There are no buildings and no houses—nothing to indicate that anyone save my angel or I has ever been here before. It's lovely here, and peaceful. I do hope heaven will be like this.

Suddenly we stop. There is a small cottage in front of us, and my angel shifts me in his arms so that he can open the door. Once we are inside, I let out a sigh of relief. This is the place of my dreams. The shutters are closed, so the room itself is dark, but not the same unpleasant darkness that imbued my cell. This darkness is inviting, warm, _pleasant_. There is no furniture in the room—just an old hardwood floor, which my angel gently sets me down upon once he has shut and bolted the door behind us. I curl up into a ball and smile. _It will soon be over_, I think to myself with joy. I feel him slip something that feels like paper into my hand and gently yet forcefully clamp my fingers around it. I'm too tired to wonder what he's given me, so I just force my fingers to hold it, knowing that it will definitely blow away once the darkness takes me. My angel kneels beside me and runs his fingers caressingly though what's left of my hair.

"Alice," he whispers softly, that same desperate aching still making his voice tremble. "Alice, sweetheart, I'm going to have to leave you soon. But you must promise me that you will remember what I've told you; that you will remember that you're generous, and noble, and _good_. Above all, you must promise to love all those whom you meet, and see the goodness in them, just as I have seen in you. Please promise me this, Alice."

I'm exhausted, and weak, and my mind is apparently suffering because of my deteriorating bodily condition. Surely, _surely_, my angel did not just tell me that he's leaving me. Surely wherever I'm going, he too will follow. Yes, without a doubt, I misheard him. I just purse my lips and nod my head, hoping that whatever he really _did_ say requires an affirmative answer. He sighs and continues to run his cool fingers through my hair, so I assume I gave him the answer he wanted.

The darkness of my dreams is creeping over me now. At my angel's touch, I feel my breathing slowing, and my heart beating less and less frequently. I know my angel has asked me to remember things for him, but this darkness I'm slipping into makes remembering very difficult. Memories come at me in quick flashes now—my father's smile, my mother's soothing touch, my sister's laughter, my angel's eyes, his voice, his touch…

As if he, too, can see the memories flashing through my head, I feel my angel taking me in his arms. I feel his rapid breath against my neck, and I hear the quiet _I love you_ he whispers into my ear. The curse of my love hasn't been a curse to him at all, then. He still loves me, I'm still his Alice.

Relief flashes through me as I feel my angel brush his soft lips against me neck.

After that, there is nothing.

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Fire and ice all at once, the extremes of both; needles, knives, saws ripping at my skin; rats and mice eating my body slowly; bullets, whips, hot metal, splinters; fever and chills; drowning, burning, suffocating; desire, hunger, thirst.

_Thirst_. Thirst is what my body finally settles on. Given the scorching in my throat right now, I almost wish it had settled on drowning. What I wouldn't give right now to be drowning in a vast ocean of–

Of what? What is it that my throat aches for? Tentatively, I sniff the air, hoping that something might appeal to me. I smell a hundred different things, but none of them lessens the fire raging in my throat. Even more frustrating is that I can't put a name to any of the smells. I can separate them, individualize them, but I don't know what any of them _are_. How inconvenient. I press my nose to the floor and inhale deeply, allowing the scent of the wood to circulate in my body. I say the name of it in my head as I allow the smell to imprint upon my mind. _Wood_. It's not edible, but at least I know what it smells like now.

Once I have wood committed to memory, I spring lithely to my feet and look around the dark room I'm in. The shutters are closed, so I go to the window and open them, making a mental note of what glass, and metal, and rust smell like in the process. It is dark outside as well, though the moon and the stars brighten the cloudless night considerably. Darkness means little to me though, as I find that I can still count each individual leaf on the trees that surround this house I've woken up in. If I wanted to, I'm sure I could count the sticks or the rocks that litter the ground as well. Obviously, darkness is not going to impede my ability to find food tonight.

As I back away from the window, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. I touch my face just to make sure that the figure in the glass is really me, and of course, the reflection does the same. So I really am this pale-white, dark-haired pixie that stares back at me across the night. I wink at myself in satisfaction, and for the first time notice the crimson color of my eyes. For some reason, seeing the deep red of my irises makes the fire in my throat flare up twofold, and so I take one last, admiring look at myself, and then turn back into the room, determined to find a remedy to quench this flame.

I begin to walk towards the door, but stop suddenly when a draft of wind blows through the house, and I hear something scrape against the floor. I look down, and see that there is a scrap of paper on the floor close to where I had been lying. It is crumpled into a ball, and when I try to unfold it, it rips apart in my hands. I unfold it more gently after seeing how fragile it is beneath my touch, and when it's completely untangled from itself, I put the two pieces back together so I can read the four words written upon it.

_Your name is Alice_.

I am… annoyed. Of all the information the person who wrote the note could have given me, he leaves me with _this_. What I eat—that would be extremely helpful to know; how to find it would have been even better. Where I am and what I'm doing here—even those would have been good starts. But my _name_? What good does that do me? I make a mental note to come up with a new name for myself as soon as I track down whatever it is I eat—there's no way I'm calling myself Alice just because some inane note tells me to. I'm so frustrated that I throw the bits of paper back on the ground, fling open the door, and run out of the house without even bothering to register the scent of paper in my mind. I'm sure I'll be able to find a less annoying example of paper to commit to memory later.

Once outside, the myriad and complex smells of the forest bombard my senses with overwhelming intensity. Only the burning in my throat prevents me from stopping to smell each one individually. There is, however, one particular smell that I stop long enough to investigate. I follow the scent until I am crouched low next to an overturned stump of a tree. Carefully, making almost no discernable noise, I look into the hollowed-out base to see six pairs of bright eyes shining out at me. As my eyes adjust to the slightly darker light, I begin to clearly see the family of foxes that huddles, together, frightened, in the dark. Though the smell of the blood flowing in their tense veins isn't entirely repulsive or off-putting, it's clearly not the exact smell my burning throat desires. Still, I am obviously getting closer to my mark. I seem to be looking for something similar to a fox… a dog, perhaps? Definitely something that has blood circulating through its body. As if in confirmation of these thoughts, my dry throat aches even more strongly. I continue blindly into the night, seeking something that I cannot name.

As I travel, a hundred questions rise to the surface of my mind. _How have I reached this age without knowing what it is that keeps me alive? How can I name a hundred objects without being able to match them with their corresponding smells? Why was I left alone in that house? Where did I come from? Do I have a family? Who was it that left me in that room? Why does the forest grow silent at my presence? Was I always this beautiful, this fast, this strong? What _am _I? _The waves of questions continue to rise and crest, never quiet reaching the dim and elusive shore of answers that surely exists somewhere in the recesses of my mind. For now it seems, I will have to be content with only the hope that these questions might someday be answered.

I've been running for what seems like hours before the scent I've been waiting for stops me dead in my tracks. I turn, and make my way to the left, grinning in anticipation as the scent grows stronger and stronger with every step I take. I reach the edge of the forest, and step out into a small meadow. Just across the clearing, I see a house, and as my eyes adjust to this new, open light, I see that I have reached the edge of a town. The smell is infinitely stronger now that it is not deflecting off of the trees, and I can hardly contain myself as I fly swiftly towards it. My mouth waters impatiently, and I gladly allow my feet to take me to that first, slightly isolated house, from which the scent radiates the strongest.

I slink towards the closest window, eager to find out what this delicious smell is, and indulge in it until I'm full. I look in through the glass and see a bed, and in it a sleeping child.

Ah, so all this time I've been after human blood. _Blood_. As I think the word in my head, my throat burns in assent. That I will take this child's life seems only too inevitable, instinctual. I am a predator, and she is my prey. There's nothing more natural in the world.

Yet as I think this, a vision flashes before my eyes that stops me from lifting the window that will grant me access to this child's blood. As the vision progresses, I fall to my knees in pain. I see a family, crying and hugging each other in anguish as they stand over a child's lifeless body. In this moment, I am privy to their private pain, and their sobs rend my heart, as would a knife. I gasp with the force of the vision, and back away from the house, momentarily terrified.

_What _was_ that?_

Unwillingly, I replay the vision in my mind and concentrate on the details. The child that the family is mourning is clearly the child who lies sleeping in her bed in the house in front of me. Her lifeless body is ravaged by crescent-shape wounds which I take to be teeth-marks. _My _teeth marks. But I haven't bitten her yet—the burning in my throat is an obvious testament to this fact—so how can it be that I'm seeing her dead? I shake my head, trying to clear it of this vision, but the same scene keeps playing and replaying in my mind. Instinctively, I take several steps backwards, trying to escape whatever it is that is making me see such things.

To my surprise, the vision shifts in my head. This time, I see the girl surrounded by her family, and they are all smiling and laughing with each other. It seems to be a party of some sort—she is surrounded by food, and family, and presents. She is vividly alive, beautiful and happy. She is not dead, and her family is no longer in pain. I sigh in relief.

But sighing causes the smell of human blood to seep into my lungs once more, and so quickly that I don't even realize it, I am back at the window, trying to force my fingers under the sill so that I can pry it open. Of course this causes the original vision to return: sobbing, weeping, _pain_. Terrified, I run back from the house again, into the safety and happiness of the infinitely more pleasant vision of the party.

This process repeats again and again until I finally sink to the ground in complete mental exhaustion. As I sit in the grass, panting uselessly into the night, realization finally begins to dawn on me.

It's me. Whatever decision I make dictates what her future will be. When I decide to kill her, I see the aftermath of her death. When I decide to let her live, I see her life.

I weigh my two options. On one hand, the fire in my throat is terrible and all-consuming. I need to quench it, and fast. I can't suffer like this for much longer. On the other hand, what is my suffering when weighed against taking this life—taking this child from her parents, her siblings, her friends? Can I really be that cruel?

_Your name is Alice_.

The words run through my head unexpectedly, and for some reason, they seem to be spoken in a male voice. Though I don't recognize it, I instantly trust it and am soothed by his words. Dimly, I hear the echoes of other words as well: _good_, _noble_, _kind_,_ generous_. _Love._

Love. The girl sleeping in that bed knows love. Her family knows love because of her. I cannot be the cause of the hole that her death would leave in their lives. I cannot be that monster. I'd rather die.

And at that thought, a new vision appears in my head. I see five beings—three males and two females—running effortlessly through the woods. From their impossible beauty and their graceful movements, I deduce that they are like me, and that gives me comfort. Whatever I am, I am not alone. I see the dark-haired female break off from the pack, and my vision follows her as her speed increases and her muscles begin to tense. She lunges for her prey, and I feel my mouth drop in surprise when I see what it is that she was after—a gigantic brown bear. With one quick movement, she has snapped its neck, and now she is kneeling before it, drinking its blood. My mouth waters as I watch her drink her fill of the sustenance my body so ardently desires. When she has finished drinking, the vision ends.

Is it true? Is there another option for my kind? Can I survive without taking love from the world? I remember the scent of the foxes earlier in the night. Certainly, the smell was nothing like the delicious smell that lingers in the air around this house. And yet, neither was it entirely unpalatable. Without another second's hesitation, I unravel myself from the fetal position I have curled into on the ground, and head back towards the woods. I'm not sure if I can trust this vision, but I have to try. And if animal blood doesn't work, then I will have to find something else. Because this girl, this precious human life, it is not mine to take.

With more questions than answers rolling through my head, I make my way back through the dark shadows of the forest. I am still alone, I am still uncertain of what I am, and I am still unsure that I will be able to satiate my thirst tonight. Despite all this, I am comforted, because of one truth I am absolutely certain:

_My name is Alice_.


	8. Jasper: July, 1939

**A/N: Another note on accuracy. In one correspondence with Stephenie Meyer that I read online, she states that Peter and Charlotte leave Maria in 1880, and that Jasper leaves in 1885. However, in Eclipse, Jasper states that when he leaves Maria, he'd been with her for "as many years as Carlisle and Edward have been together," or 87 years. If Jasper joined with Maria in 1863, then we obviously have a bit of a problem with Stephenie Meyer's 1880s dates. We also have this 1948 date to work with (the year Alice and Jasper supposedly meet) which is only 85 years from when Jasper is turned. So... basically what I'm saying is that the dates don't always match up. I'm trying to work closely with the dates that Jasper gives in his Eclipse narration while still keeping in mind 1948 as the year that Jasper and Alice finally meet. The dates may not always be entirely correct, but I just wanted to explain why that is.**

**Did I mention I'm a little OCD about details?**

**Thanks to my awesome reviewers! I woke up to two reviews this morning and I almost cried with joy. Seriously.**

**[Insert generic disclaimer about how Stephenie Meyer owns the characters, the plot, the ideas... everything, while I own nothing here]**

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**Jasper**

It's been two months since our last battle. The newborns are gettin' restless, and Maria is weary of the way they fight amongst themselves. As their original human blood becomes less and less prominent in their veins, their thirst grows, and it becomes more difficult to keep their presence a secret. There's talk that the Volturi have grown tired of the ceaseless fighin' down here, and will soon be payin' us all a visit to clean things up. No need to speed their visit along by callin' attention to ourselves. The newborns have outlived their usefulness, and Maria has made her intentions clear: it's time to purge.

Twelve lives. Twelve vampire lives will be lost tonight at my hand. Twelve sentient creatures will become little more than ash by the time the next sun rises. And tomorrow? Tomorrow we'll start all over again. Maria will start scoutin' for more potential fighters and within a fortnight we will have a whole new army. More promises broken, more desires unfulfilled, more lives lost. How much longer can this last?

The sun is just beginnin' to set as I make my way through the streets of Monterray, carefully clingin' to the shadows as I walk. The scent of blood is _everywhere_. It hovers in the air like a thick, delicious fog, and even though I fed just last night, it takes all the strength I have not to take down a human right here in the middle of the street. Fortunately though, humans have a sort of aversion to my kind that they probably don't understand. But I can sense it in 'em just before I kill 'em—even when I'm usin' all my power to calm 'em down. Their hair stands on end, their breathin' quickens, and I smell the adrenaline coursin' through their veins. Of course, none of these instincts can save 'em from what I have in store for 'em, but on nights like this, when I don't particularly _want_ to kill one of 'em, it helps that they instinctively keep their distance from me.

Damn it, I _hate_ comin' into town. I'll never understand why Peter insists on disappearin' here every free second he gets. I can feel his emotions, and I know that he is restless, and bored, and discontented with this dismal life we're leadin'. These are emotions I understand, for I feel them too. I'm tired of Maria's games, and of her complete disregard for anythin' that resembles life. And though I once enjoyed it, I'm tired of fightin'. But what else can we do? This is what we were made for—this is the only way we can stay alive. Peter knows this better than anyone, since, of all the newborns save myself, he is the only one to have earned Maria's favor, and by extension, his life, by bein' a good fighter. He's smart, and tactical, and quick, and such qualities have kept him alive. He may hate it, but that's the way things are.

And, naturally, I understand his need to get away. More than anyone else, I understand that desire. The ceaseless rage and thirst of the newborns gnaws at my soul and keeps me constantly on edge. I try my best to calm things down, but that only lasts for so long before one of them breaks free from my power and the fightin' begins all over again. So I understand the compulsion to escape—to get away. But at least I have the good sense to disappear to the plains, or to the woods, or even to swim deep out into the ocean, just so I can be sure that I'm completely alone. What in God's name compels Peter to come _here_? To literally immerse himself in the one scent that makes our throats burn and our scarlet eyes turn black with desire. And what's worse, he comes in the _daytime_, when he has to struggle every second to tame that desire so that he won't be caught doin' somethin' he shouldn't. At least in the darkness of night, killin' usually goes unnoticed by weak human eyes. But in the _day_… when the sun and heat make the smell of human blood even more potent and appealin', and yet one can't even walk out into the sun without bein' noticed by someone…

Damn it, I _hate_ comin' to town.

I catch sight of Peter across the square, and the second I see him, his broodin', melancholy emotions engulf me as if they are my own. He's never enjoyed havin' to purge the newborns, and I can't say that I blame him for that, though, again, it's just part of what we have to do to survive. The emotions seem stronger tonight though, and even stranger, there seems to be some other, more subtle emotion lurkin' somewhere in the recesses of his mind. For a moment, I contemplate just doin' the whole thing on my own and not involvin' him in it at all, but I know that if Maria finds out that Peter is havin' second thoughts about this whole thing, she'd have me kill him too. Peter is the closest thing to a friend that I have, and I'm unwillin' to have him die by my hand. I sigh and hold my breath in preparation to make my way across the crowded square, hopin' that whatever I have to say to convince Peter that he needs to help me purge the newborns takes only as much breath as I can hold in one lungful of air.

Truth is, there was a time when I wanted Peter dead. Three years ago, I was aimlessly wanderin' the streets at night when I happened upon a human man who appeared to be doin' just the same thing. I had fed earlier in the evening and I wasn't particularly thirsty, so I crossed to the opposite side of the street, givin' the man a wide berth and intendin' to spare his life. But just as I stepped out into the gutter to make way for him, I caught his face in the reflection of glass in a storefront window. His tan skin, his blue eyes, his blonde hair—all of him was stunningly beautiful… almost divine. If it hadn't been for his obviously human pigment, I would have assumed he was a vampire. In that same instant that I registered his beauty, I caught sight of my own face in the same window. The comparison was devestatin'. My blood-red eyes, my skin marred and ravaged by endless scars—my profile was no match for the beauty of this human man. In the juxtaposition between our two figures that night, I finally saw myself for what I truly was—a soulless, empty, shell of a monster. I was gruesome and horrific in every way possible, and I was damned to be so for eternity.

I wanted the man dead because of it. I wanted to kill him because he was everythin' I was not, and everythin' I could never be. And so without sparin' him a second thought, I lunged at him, intendin' not only to drain him, but also to rip out his oh-so-perfect throat.

Maybe it was because I wasn't truly hungry, or maybe it was because deep down, I didn't really want to kill him, but for whatever reason, I felt that man's fear that night so strongly that it made me stop mid-kill, even though stopping was all but impossible. The moment my teeth sank into his neck his fear washed through me as quickly and as surely as his blood would have had I been able to continue feeding from him. The fear immobilized me, and so even though blood flowed from his neck, I couldn't even think about finishin' what I'd started. But my venom was in his veins, and so, against my will, the transformation began to take place.

When the sun started to rise, I realized that I had to move him. I carried him to the abandoned house where Maria and the rest of the newborns lived and took him to the basement. I sat with him as he went through the transformation, feelin' every pain he felt, sobbin' ever sob he sobbed, and wantin' to die every bit as much as he did. Those were the single most horrible days of my life. Of course, the irony was not lost on me: I'd wanted to kill him because he was so beautiful, but by makin' him into a vampire, I'd just increased his beauty. None of that mattered to me as I suffered in that room with him though. I felt oddly responsible for and protective of him. Against my will I had created him, and with creation came an obligation to protect. When his heart finally stopped beatin' and he awoke to his new life, I took him under my wing. I convinced Maria to let him join our army, and I taught him everythin' I knew about stayin' alive.

Peter doesn't blame me for takin' his human life from him. He remembers little of that night I found him on the street, and I suppose, now that he knows how potent human blood is for us, he's grateful just to be alive—in any form. Admittedly, I never told him about how much I'd wanted to end him because of his beauty. Perhaps if he knew that fact, he might be less inclined to be so nonchalant about the whole thing. Especially now that after three years of battles his skin is beginnin' to look as scarred and as disfigured as mine. But despite his scars, Peter still seems to emit a radiance that my face was oddly deficient in on that night three years ago, and that, when I chance to look in a mirror now, my face lacks still. When I look at Peter, I see glimpses of his former humanity. When I look at myself, I still see that same soulless, empty shell.

I shake these memories from my head and continue towards where Peter is sittin'. He rises to meet me when I get close to him, and before I can begin to convince him of all the reasons why he must do as Maria says, he holds up his hand to stop me. I feel determination rollin' at me in waves from where he's standin', and I know that somehow, sittin' in this square that is dense with the smell of human blood, he has already convinced himself of what needs to be done. _Good boy_, I think to myself as we make our way quickly out of town, _the more you understand the necessity of what we're doin', the easier it becomes to do it._

Maria is waitin' for us when we get back. Tied together at her feet are four humans—two for Peter and two for me. Mine are already unconscious, for which I am grateful. Since that night with Peter so long ago when I unwillingly allowed his fear and pain to seep into my own consciousness, killin' has been exponentially more difficult for me. It's as though a wall was broken that night—a barrier that cannot be repaired, though of course I try. Again and again I try. When I kill humans now, I'm careful to use my ability to calm them down, to reassure them that nothin' will happen, and this works, to an extent. But in that last second, when my instincts take over and the bloodthirsty demon within me rears its ugly head, I can't project the feelings I want to project, and my victim's fear dances in me like a million tiny flames. It never incapacitates me as it did that first night with Peter, but it's enough to make my meal wholly un-enjoyable. Maria knows as much, and now, when she rewards me with blood instead of her body, she is careful to render my victims unconscious before she brings them to me. It annoys her, I can tell, but she's willin' to do it as long as I keep winnin' her battles for her.

Tonight these humans serve not as a reward, but as a necessary supplement to our strength. We have a long, difficult night ahead of us, and the blood we drink now will give us a decided advantage in the twelve separate battles we will fight against the newborns. I used to do this alone, and though of course I always finished the job, it wasn't always easy. With Peter though, it's hardly difficult at all. We have a flawless system worked out—I concentrate on numbin' the victim while he systematically dismembers them. Once the victim is too incapacitated to fight back, I finish the job and throw the separate pieces of his or her body into the fire that Peter has built in the meantime. When the fire has burnt out, we bury the ashes in dirt so that our next victim can't catch wind of the undeniable evidence of death and escape before he too becomes calm under my influence. It's over in hardly any time at all, and is far less stressful than it used to be when I was alone. It takes a great mental toll on both of us though—especially on Peter. I feel the pity he exudes each time another victim goes up in flames, and the regret he feels at bein' the cause of it. I admire him for feelin' anythin' besides hate and disgust towards these soulless lives, but still, he is a fool. Purgin' these vampires, creatin' new ones, fightin' battles, purgin' again—this is the only way we can survive. Why mourn one's existence when one cannot change the way things are?

Peter rounds our small army of vampires up and takes them to a designated clearin' in the woods, lettin' them think that they are bein' brought out like this to be given a massive reward. I wait for him downwind, several yards away, so that none of the newborns will see me and suspect that somethin' is wrong. When Peter reaches me, alone, he calls out the name of the first victim. As soon as she's near enough, I envelop her in calm so that she doesn't alert the others, and then the three of us make our way to a separate clearin' a few miles away, where we get to work.

Everythin' goes as planned—the vampire is dismembered and burnin' in minutes. _It's gonna be an easy night_ I think to myself as I throw the last piece of her torso onto the flames. But somethin' is distractin' Peter. He is edgy and nervous even though I still feel his determination. I don't like it. Somethin's off. As if he can read my thoughts, he starts talkin' to me across the fire.

"We can keep the next one," he says, his voice strugglin' to maintain its calm tenor, "He's an excellent fighter, and he will certainly be of use to us in the future. He has tremendous potential. Please, please Jasper. If you tell Maria, she'll understand. He doesn't have to die tonight. It doesn't have to be like this."

I weigh his words carefully in my mind. I know the newborn that Peter speaks of, and it is true, he is a good fighter. But he's also nearly a year old, and his strength is waning. Soon, he will no longer be useful. Keepin' him around would deplete the strength of the new army that I know Maria is already startin' to build, and will put us at a disadvantage. No, just like all the others, he must die.

"Peter, " I say, tryin' to sound disapprovin' and authoritative, "you know Maria's orders."

He grimaces, and bows his head in defeat. He knows I can't go against what Maria's told me, and if he has any sense at all, he won't try'n cross her either. Her tactical and careful plannin' keeps us alive. Even though it may pain us to do so, we must follow her orders to the letter if we want to live. It's the price we both must pay.

I thought that he understood—that after that first victim we'd do our job quietly and speak no more to each other about alternate plans. But every damn time we bring a vampire into the clearin' that night, Peter has some reason why he or she should be allowed to live. He's so strong, she's so fast, he's so accurate, she's so smart in her attack. He, she, it has _potential_. Each time, I have to give him the same infallible reason why we must end the newborn's life: we have no other choice. And each time he grows more and more frustrated with that answer. I'm getting' frustrated as well—havin' to explain the same thing over and over again is takin' a toll on my patience. If he pulls this nonsense again, I'm gonna have to send him away and finish the job on my own. Maria's not gonna like that if she finds out…

I can hear the next victim makin' her way towards us in the woods. I can tell from the gait that she is a female named Charlotte. A sigh escapes my lips as I say her name, because I already know what Peter's excuse will be for wantin' to keep her around: she is beautiful. She's similar to Peter in the way that she seems to glow with an unnatural and dazzlin' beauty despite the scars that feather her skin. She's gorgeous, and I know that this fact has not escaped Peter's attention—it wouldn't go unnoticed by anyone, and certainly not by someone who's been payin' such obvious attention to the strengths of our army as Peter has.

_I need to send him away_, I think to myself. But just as the thought crosses my mind, I become aware that Peter's entire mood has changed. The minute I said Charlotte's name, his careful mask of composure and determination disappeared, and in its place was the most furious anger I had ever felt. I turn to him, instinctively preparin' myself for the fight I don't want. But like most things in my life, if it comes down to a choice between him and me, the answer is me. Every time.

Suddenly, Charlotte comes into view. _This is bad_, I think to myself, _She'll feel the anger here and flee. I'm gonna have to kill Peter and then try'n chase her down. This is really, really bad._

But when Peter catches sight of Charlotte, his whole mood shifts. His fury is replaced with … his anger is replaced with …

I have no words for what he's feelin'. Without a doubt, it s a stronger, more absolute variation of the confusing, nameless emotion I feel when I'm around humans. Somethin' deep and permanent binds 'em together, just as it binds Peter to Charlotte now. In this moment, I can feel how his life is inextricably bound up in hers, and that killin' her would surely mean killin' him too. This realization makes me falter, just for an instant. An instant is all it takes. When Peter sees my resolve shaken, he grabs Charlotte's hand and flees with her into the darkness. I do not follow. I took Peter's life from him once; I will not take it from him again.

_What _was _that?_

How could Peter have felt so strongly for Charlotte without me ever knowin'? The answer comes to me even as I think the question. Peter knows that I can sense emotions, and had I sensed that this emotion was growin' within him, I probably would have killed Charlotte on the spot. Such ties are dangerous in war, and I would not have compromised our whole operation for the sake of one bond. But Peter had hid this emotion from me in order to save her. Suddenly, all his time spent amongst the humans makes infinitely more sense—he was constantly disappearin' somewhere where he knew I wouldn't go unless I absolutely had to. He was hidin' his feelings from me so that he could keep her alive. He was sacrificin' his own comfort and sanity _every damn day_ just so he could make sure she was safe. _Well_, _I suppose that's just what happens when two people are …_

I still have no word for what Peter and Charlotte feel for one another. All I know is that it's somethin' beyond the normal rage and pain and anger that I feel every day. It's somethin' stronger, something more… beautiful. But it also makes me question everythin' that I've ever believed. _If he can feel this, if he can put her and her needs before himself, then what does that say about the way I've lived my life? _All my life I've fought to stay alive simply because I was too afraid to die. Life had little meanin' outside of blood and lust and battle, and even these I was beginnin' to grow weary of.

_But what if there is somethin' else_?

There are five newborns left for me to destroy, and I do my job without ceremony or pleasure. Peter's absence will not escape Maria's notice, and I will have some explainin' to do when I return to her. I will leave out the part about this foreign emotion though—either it's somethin' Maria doesn't know anythin' about (in which case she can't help me understand it), or it's somethin' she's purposefully been keepin' from me (in which case she might destroy me for knowin' what I shouldn't know). Either way, tellin' Maria will not help matters any, so I'll let her think that Charlotte is dead and that Peter simply ran off on his own. She'll still be mad, but at least I'll get to stay alive.

And life… life now seems infinitely more bearable now that there seems to be somethin' worth livin' for.


	9. Alice: Late March, 1920 to March, 1940

**A/N: Sorry guys. Alice was being intentionally difficult tonight, and I fear that this chapter of her story hasn't come out as clearly as I'd hoped. *sigh* I think part of the problem was that, Alice just kind of, you know, woke up to her vampire life without anyone there to instruct her, without anyone there to tell her what to do or how to behave. Even Carlisle had more to go on than she did. I imagine that her first years of trying to figure everything out were... confusing. Trying to describe them is also confusing, but I hope you'll forgive me this confusion when I tell you that we do get some more Cullens in this section. If one knows what one's looking for (which I'm sure all of my readers do because seriously, you guys ROCK) one might also catch a glimpse of Jasper in here. But Jasper hasn't made the decision that will set him on his path to Alice yet, at least not consciously, so she still can't really see him. But he'll make that decision. Soon. Chapter ten. I promise. And then she will be able to see him for real.  
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**I got so many reviews today. I'm ecstatic! Seriously. Thank you all so much for sticking with this.  
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**In 2005, a woman named Stephenie Meyer wrote Twilight. She owns it. In 2009, I started borrowing her ideas. I own nothing.**

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**Alice**

Eight hours. Eight hours after I first woke up to my new life, I followed my own scent back to the cottage in the woods. I spent the whole first day of my new life trying to piece together the puzzle of my existence. People should be very careful when they call puzzles games. As I found out that night when I almost ruined everything by taking a life that was not mine to take, puzzles can be very dangerous things when one don't have all the pieces.

I was drunk with relief that day—relief that I hadn't killed any humans, and relief that when I took down animals, I didn't see flashes of their starving, scared animal babies running through my head. And of course, I felt relief that the fire in my throat had been tamed. I sampled a lot of animals during my first hunting trip—bobcats, foxes, coyotes, even a bear, before finally settling on deer as my elixir of choice—and none of them had come remotely close to being as appealing to me as that human's blood had been. But still, the ache in my throat subsided substantially with each drop of blood I drank, and it finally cooled enough for me to be able to think, which was good because thinking was something that I desperately needed to do.

I laid out the facts as I saw them. Number one: blood was what kept me alive. Above all else, I desired human blood, and that meant that, until I could build up a resistance to the smell, I had to keep my distance from humans. Fortunately, animal blood also did the trick, and I was quite sure I could live on that substitute liquid easily, since doing so meant that no human life had to be lost. Number two: I had smelled human blood, and I had smelled my own scent, and could infer from the difference in those smells that I was absolutely _not_ human. Number three: despite my small size, I was unbelievably strong, fast, and dangerous. Number four: my senses were impeccable—I could see, taste, hear, and smell things that were miles away. I could feel every mote of dirt as it brushed over my skin, I could feel the slight tremor of the earth when an animal scurried across the forest floor. My senses only enhanced the danger I posed to everyone and everything around me. I was a veritable killing machine.

Number five: I could see the future. Of all the strange things that I learned about myself on that first day, this was by far the strangest. I doubted whether any humans had this same ability. Had my first intended victim been able to see the future, she would have seen me coming and would never have been resting in her bed so peacefully unawares. Perhaps the others of my kind could do the same; perhaps like the beauty, the strength, the speed, and the heightened senses, foresight was prevalent in kind. I had no way of confirming these suspicions because, Number six: I was alone. Wherever I had come from, whatever I had been before the first night I woke up in the dark, I was alone now. There was no one to give me answers.

Naturally, I wasn't alone in the _universe_. My visions had shown me that there were others like me. Seeing that dark-haired female take down that bear had saved me from succumbing to the monster within me. Yet, I never saw those five beings again after that first vision. I'm no fool. I learned quickly that first night that my visions are subjective. I had seen the girl live only because I _decided_ to back away. And it was only when I _decided_ that I would rather die than take her life that I saw the vision I needed to keep me alive. I yearned to see them in my mind again so that I could see how they lived, how they interacted—so that I could possibly get some answers about who and what I was. But what decision did I have to make in order to see them again?

Unfortunately, my foresight doesn't always answer the questions I ask.

I learned something else that first day, when I'd calmed down enough from my hunting excursion to really notice my surroundings. I began to notice that the air in the cottage was saturated with smells other than wood, glass, and metal. I sniffed around until I noticed something that would have been painfully obvious to me before, had I not been so focused on finding something to quench my thirst: the room that I had woken up in was not the only room in the cottage. There was a door to another room against the far wall of the room I'd woken up in, and the smells coming from it were wonderfully fragrant and comforting. None of my instincts alerted me that there was any danger in it, so I allowed my curiosity to lead me through the door without any hesitation at all.

I stepped from the darkness into a world of color. Dresses, skirts, blouses, hats, shoes, all hung from the low rafters of the ceiling or from hangers on the walls. _Fabric was everywhere_. The smells I'd smelled from the other room were silk and cotton and leather and satin and lace. And… the name of the last smell eluded me until I noticed that pinned to each garment was a corresponding piece of paper. _Paper_ I thought, as I gleefully inhaled and registered the scent. On each piece of paper was drawn a sketch, and written underneath each sketch was a name, _my _name, and a date ranging from 1918 to 1920. Was it possible? Had I sketched all the designs for these beautiful clothes?

I sniffed around the room until I found a bundle of blank paper and a pencil hidden in a corner. I sat upon the floor, closed my eyes, and begin to draw. Within ten minutes I had created five designs, equal in competency and beauty to any of the ones that decorated the room around me. It was possible. I _had_ sketched the designs for all these clothes.

Number seven: I was a good designer. Along with this realization came another. My scent was nowhere in that room—a strange but beautiful scent still lingered there, but there was absolutely nothing of me. I had never been in that room before. Someone else had left those sketches and clothes where I would find them. Someone had meant for me to have some reminder of what my life had been before I awoke to this new one. Number eight: someone once cared for me. I had no idea where they had gone, or why they had abandoned me, but once, they had cared for me.

As my first day turned into night, I was comforted by the few answers I had been able to discern for myself. Most comforting of all was the knowledge that once, I had not been alone. I could only hope that knowledge meant that my isolation would not last forever.

* * *

Seven hundred and forty nine days. For seven hundred and forty nine days I never spoke to another living soul. It wasn't for lack of trying. Every night I made my way to the edge of the woods where the small village began. Every night I would edge closer and closer to that first house, and every night at a certain point, the vision would begin again: _pain, terror, violence, death, sadness, anguish, pain_. That was my signal to stop. I'd take a step backwards into the safety of more pleasant futures, and would sit and watch the little town, hoping I could someday walk amongst people again. In those times, it was difficult to imagine that I'd ever get used to their smell.

I learned more things about myself on such nights. Number nine: I don't age. I realized this one night as I listened to a birthday party happening somewhere in the middle of town. _Humans age_, I suddenly remembered. But I'd seen myself in the reflection of the windows of my cottage, and I knew without a doubt that no physical changes were taking place in my body. I definitely wasn't aging. This knowledge helped strengthen my resolve to continue my attempts to be able to be close to humans without harming them. Patience is a lot easier to find within oneself when one is going to live forever.

Number ten: I sparkle in the sun. I found this out one night when I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn't even realize when the sun started to rise. I'd never been out in the sun before—always the shadows of the forest had almost completely blocked the sun from hitting the ground. But that particular morning, the sun did reach me as I sat in the open field outside the town, and when it did, I shone. My milky white skin sparkled like an opal in the sunlight, and I when I laughed at the way the rays of light seemed to dance on my skin, the air around me shimmered. I was beautiful.

My vanity didn't last long however. I learned another important truth that day, only this particular truth wasn't about me. As I reveled in my own beauty, a vision of the near future suddenly appeared before my eyes. In it, I saw a human getting up early for work. When we walked out his front door, he caught sight of me laughing like a fool, and shimmering unnaturally in the sun. I saw the confusion and disbelief on his face as he tried to understand what he was seeing. I'll never know what the rest of that vision was, since I moved out of the sun as soon as I understood what my foresight was trying to tell me: Number eleven: humans don't like what they don't understand.

That day I realized that if I was going to be around humans, which was becoming more and more practical every day that I was able to edge closer to the town, I was going to need to understand the things that made me different from them. Thus, my list of things I knew swelled to include my observations about normal, human behavior. Number eleven: humans blink. Number twelve: humans breathe. Number thirteen: humans walk very, _very _slowly. Number fourteen: Humans dress in heavy clothes when it's cold and in light clothes when it's warm. Number fifteen: humans _never_ stand perfectly still. They are constantly moving, constantly fidgeting. Number sixteen: humans are fragile and breakable. When touched, they must be touched with extreme care. These were all things that I would have to remember and try to emulate when I was able to stand being around humans for extended periods of time.

It took two years of failure before I finally was able to reach the little town without having some awful vision that ended in terror and death. After that, it took me another six months before I could walk around the town breathing easily. Eventually, I began to get to know the people who lived there, and that was probably the first real mistake I made in this new life—making friends. Because somehow I'd forgotten rule number nine. After only a few short years, I started to be aware that my friends were becoming suspicious about my age. I knew then that I'd have to leave them to avoid further suspicion, and the thought that I would have to leave everyone I had grown close to pained me to the core. But I knew that my departure was unavoidable, so one night I packed all my sketches and a few changes of clothes away in a bag, and left the little cottage that had been my only home. I learned two more things as I tore across the earth that night, saddened and alone. Number seventeen: I can't cry, even if my heart is breaking.

Number eighteen: don't make friends with humans.

I took this last lesson to heart. For years and years I traveled and lived alone. I eventually learned how to forge a birth certificate for myself, and when social security cards were introduced, I got one of those two. Official proof of my existence allowed me to get a permanent job as a fashion designer for a big company in New York. My one stipulation in taking the job was that I would be allowed to send my designs in by mail, and that the company would send me my paycheck via the same system. My ideas were good enough that the company agreed to this without hesitation, and so I finally had an income to support my endless travels and wanderings.

I made many acquaintances in my years of wandering, but was careful never to forge any close friendships with the humans I encountered. Always, always I longed to be able to tell someone about my life—to tell someone what I truly was. To have someone to talk to, someone to really confide in. But such things were impossible since humans lead a ephemeral life, and I an immortal one. I reasoned that it was better to spare myself the pain of loss by staying away from everyone.

Number nineteen: everyone I ever love, everyone I ever care for, everyone I ever _know_ will die.

* * *

Twenty years. Twenty years ago today is when my memory started working again. Before that, there's still nothing—an empty hole. It's as though these flashes of the future I see exist to fill the void where my memories should be. Truthfully, though foresight has often proven itself to be useful, I'd rather have the memories. At least if I had memories of the time before the cottage, I might remember being loved. Since it seems as though I'll never be able to get close enough to anyone to be able to experience real love again, I'd definitely settle for the memory of it. But for twenty years, I've never had one, concrete memory of anything before that empty room. And in twenty years I've had no vision of ever finding someone I might be able to love. Perhaps love is simply not in the cards for me. But what if…?

_What if_ is always a dangerous phrase. It can give people hope when hoping is useless. It can cause people to act against nature, against rationality, against _fate_. _What if_ has the power to undo even the best of men.

_But what if_…?

It's something I've been tossing around in my head all night while the rest of the world is sleeping. What if the reason I haven't found what I think I'm looking for is because I've never actually decided to actively look for it? I've been wandering aimlessly from place to place for years, always hoping against hope that I might encounter one of my own kind on the street, or that one of the five beings I saw in my first and only vision of a similar life outside my own might come searching for _me_. What if it's _I _who should be searching for _them_?

What if.

I look out of my dreary New York apartment at the streets below me and see a world that I will never fully be a part of. I've struggled for years to fit in with people who can never understand me, whose lives I can never really touch lest I cause pain for all involved. Though I walk amongst humans freely, to them I am no more than a ghost, a phantom breeze that blows into their lives and blows out again just as quickly. The void where my memories should be—those memories that were surely imbued with joy, happiness, and love now aches to be filled again with those same emotions. Only, since I can't get emotionally close to anyone, experiencing such emotions seems like an impossibility. Unless…

Unless I find someone whose life is as permanent and immortal as my own. If I can find someone who was born into this same endless existence as I, perhaps I can experience the joy of friendship, of family, of love. I know it is dangerous to hope, for I have seen nothing to suggest that such a life is possible. But without the barrier of mortality, perhaps… perhaps there is room for hope after all.

I should, I must, I _will_ seek out my own kind. I'll start by looking for those five creatures I saw hunting in the woods. Though I don't know how strongly they were connected in my vision, at least they were together, and right now, any company would be better than this solitude. I have no idea where to find them, but I'll look in every forest in the country if I have to. Time is not something I lack.

As if in answer to these silent musings, my vision suddenly shifts elsewhere, away from this room, to something that _will_ happen in the future. I see the same five figures as before, only so much more clearly this time. It's Christmas—I can tell by the elaborate decorations that cover the ceiling, the walls, even the floor of the large room. The bronze-haired boy is playing a carol on a gorgeous grand piano, and the others are all standing around him, singing. The singers are coupled off—the beautiful blonde female is clinging playfully on the back of the tall, muscular male, and the kind-eyed man has his arms around the beautiful brunette female that I saw take down the bear that night twenty years ago. Somehow, she doesn't look nearly as menacing now, wrapped tightly in the arms of her mate. It's obvious to me now, in this peaceful vision, that they are a family—that they are all deeply and intimately bound to one another. Here, in this room, are all the things I've been wanting and needing all this time. It _is _possible for such things to exist for my kind.

And now I know that such things will also exist for me. For there, at the elbow of the boy playing the piano, I suddenly notice a sixth figure. Me.

I'm there in that room too. I'm laughing and singing with the others, and every now and then the boy at the piano looks up at me and smiles. Everything about this family exudes happiness, and peace, and _love_, and in the future, I will be included in all of it.

Number twenty: I'm going to find my family. I'm going to be loved.

Twenty things I know for sure—one for each year of my life. That's not bad, really.

As I pack my things, I play and replay the vision I've just had, just so I can revel in the happiness of it. I pick up on things that I missed before—the way the beautiful blonde girl strokes her mate's hair with her fingers, the way the kind-eyed man and his—his wife?—sway in time with the music, the way the bronze-haired boy smiles crookedly when the muscular boy sings purposefully loudly and off-key. And… the way they're dressed… who told them it was okay to dress like that? I laugh to myself as I snap my suitcase shut. _I need them, it's true. But obviously_ _they need me as well. _Someone_ has to tell them that they can't go out of the house looking like that!_

Just as I'm about to step out my door, I see something in the clarity of hindsight that makes me freeze in my tracks.

_What is that standing next to me at the piano?_

It's blurry, completely undefined, and doesn't seem to be able to hold any shape for very long. In some moments I think I see a tall man standing there, but in other moments, it seems like it could be a mere reflection of a shadow. Whatever it is, it doesn't seem to upset me, but still… _what is that?_

I shake my head, clearing it of this shadowy image, and continue out my door, determined not to let any obscurities in my future blacken my exuberant mood. Instead, I concentrate on the journey I have in front of me. I still have no idea where I'm going, but at least I finally know the life that is waiting for me when I arrive. It might take years, and it might be difficult, but I know that eventually, I will find everything I've been looking for, that I've been hoping for.

The end that I am now traveling towards is surely worth whatever journey that it takes for me to get there.


	10. Jasper: January, 1945

**A/N: Very short, almost a drabble really. But I didn't ask much of Jasper for this chapter—I only asked him if he could please**_**, please**_** find a way to get away from Maria. This is how he said 'yes' to my request.  
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**As always, thanks to my loyal readers and reviewers. You make all the time I spend on this worth it.**

**Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters. I own the computer that I type on, but nothing else.

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****Jasper **

Eighty-two years. I have lived the span of a human life, and in it, I have died six thousand, four hundred and eight deaths. With my victims, I have breathed every last breath, I have cried every last tear, and I have prayed every last prayer as if they were my own. Ask me now if there is a god, I will tell you that everyone—_everyone_, regardless of race or religion—finds themselves upon their knees at the hour of their death. So yes, I believe there is a god. But his will is immobile, and cannot be swayed by even the most ardent of supplications. Thousands upon thousands of private communions have I held with my victims moments before I take their lives, and not one of them has ever been answered.

So why is it that my prayers have been answered today?

Peter has returned, and with him he brings the promise of another life. In the more than five years since I last saw him, he has never fought with others, he has never had to create another bein' just so that it can be destroyed, and he has never squabbled with others over land, territory, or possessions. Neither has he lived a solitary life. He has remained faithful and true to Charlotte, and together they have met others of our kind who feel no need, no compulsion to fight. Somehow, in findin' each other, the two of them have found the world that I so desperately crave for myself.

I listen with both interest and heartache as Peter tells me of this world that exists outside of my own. There are covens of us that are able to live together in near perfect harmony. Such groupings are small, generally only two or three in number, but still, the members are usually fiercely loyal to one another. The bonds these vampires form allow them to live as humans do—they own houses and cars, and have jobs that allow them to keep the secrecy of who and what they are in tact. Because their purpose in life is not dictated by violence, they are able to indulge in hobbies, interests that were never possible for me—they paint, they play music, they read, they write… in other words, they are civilized. Peter even tells me that there are some of us who walk, work, and live amongst humans as though they _are_ humans themselves. But even though he tells me so with perfect sincerity, I cannot imagine that this can be possible, since such an arrangement would cause even the strongest of us unbearable sufferin'. Still, I remember a time when Peter would escape me by hiding amongst humans, so maybe… maybe it is so.

If I could still shed tears, I would do so when Peter begins to tell me about the North. Though vampires have impeccable vision, the bright city lights of Texas still interfere with and obscure the beauty of the stars. Peter tells me how, the first month they were in Alaska, he and Charlotte spent every single night lyin' beneath the clear sky, just revelin' in the wonder of it. He describes a phenomenon where bright lights of all different colors appear to dance across the night sky like swirlin' flames, and says that in all his years on this earth, he has never seen anythin' that has made him feel so small. I can feel the reverence he feels as he remembers it, and I can tell that he is speakin' the truth. I laugh with him when tells me about the strange animals that live in the North: huge, furry deer-like creatures with fuzzy antlers, oxen with gigantic bodies and small, stubby feet, and great white bears whose fur blends in perfectly with the snow.

_Snow_. I've seen all kinds of weather in my time on this earth—rain, hail, hurricanes, droughts, floods, tornados—but never in my life have I seen snow. A long-forgotten human memory suddenly surfaces in my mind: My daddy and I are standin' in front of a Christmas tree, and he is tryin' to tell me what Christmas was like for him, as a boy growin' up in Pennsylvania. He tells me about my grandma and grandpa, and how they used to have to walk several miles in the snow each year to find a tree that they could cut down and bring home for Christmas. I ask him about snow, and he tries to describe it for many minutes before he stops, defeated, and looks down at my confused face.

"I can't tell you what snow is," he finally says, "but I promise to show you one day. I'll take you to my home in Philadelphia, and we'll make snow-angels, and build snowmen, and have snowball fights."

"Promise?" I ask, full of excitement.

"I promise."

Of course, thanks to my selfishness and recklessness, this was a promise he never even had the hope of bein' able to keep.

In my life, territorial lines have always been malleable, adjustable. Divisions between properties are constantly being drawn and redrawn as challengers become victors, or possessors are defeated. I've never paid much attention to the more permanent lines drawn by the government that indicate the divisions between states. I know I was born in Texas, and I know Texas is in the South. Beyond that, things start to get fuzzy. I consider askin' Peter if Pennsylvania is anywhere near Alaska, but then decide that it doesn't really matter. Peter is offerin' me a chance to escape this life that has, for too long, been tainted by bitterness, anger, battle, and death. I would be a fool not to jump at this chance. I will follow him wherever he leads me, so long as he leads me away from here.

Without a backwards glance, I leave the only world I've ever known behind me. It would have been better had I never known it at all.

For the past eighty-two years, time has been measured not by minutes or hours, but by the screams of my victims. Six thousand, four hundred and eight of them, to be exact—each as terrible and distinct as the last. Added to that number are the countless bodies that I have sent back into the earth as ash. Those were a joint effort though, and so I cannot rightly add any of them in the ever-growin' tally of fatalities that I claim as my own. But someone, somewhere, knows the exact sum of my guilt, and I shudder to think what the reckonin' will be when I am called upon to answer for it.

I have survived, against the odds, for one, terrible, eighty-two-year-long day. Who knows when this life of mine will end? All I know for sure is that when it does, I will not be able to plead ignorance as an excuse for the life I've lived—no excuse, no bargain, no bribe will be sufficient to erase my blame. But perhaps, before that time comes, I can experience some of the beauty of this world—some of its joy, its pleasure, its goodness.

Though I do not sleep, this moment seems to me to be the dawnin' of a new day. With any luck, tomorrow's sun will shine down on me from a different angle in the sky. I hope that in that strange and unfamiliar light, I will finally begin to see the path that leads to peace.


	11. Alice: January, 1945

**A/N: How excited are y'all to see Jasper through Alice's eyes? I know I was. Not sure if I really captured it though, but I hope it's not a total disappointment. They don't meet yet, *tear*, but the next time Alice gets to speak, she'll tell you all about that part of the story. Oh, and don't get confused or think I've lost my mind when you read about where Alice sees herself meeting Jasper. I know they meet in a diner--but Jasper's future is still a little uncertain, so Alice is only seeing partial pictures. All will be revealed in time.**

**My readers and reviewers light up my life. Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart.**

**And Stephenie Meyer, (who I'm quite sure is _not_ one of my readers or reviewers), thank you too, for creating Twilight. Obviously, you own it all, but thanks for letting us all share a little piece of it.**

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* * *

Alice**

_What changed?_

Sometimes the future is just about as useful to me as the darkness where my memories should be. I suppose I should be used to both frustrations by now, but I doubt if I'll ever get used to either. At least the pain of my apparently permanent amnesia about my life before this one can usually be tempered by the happiness that's in store for me when I get to wherever it is I'm going. But when my destination keeps changing, the dual pains of loss and uncertainty are enough to make me want to scream.

I'm alone, in a large, open plain in the middle of Texas, so I do. Scream. I scream at the sky in what is meant to be a gesture of anger and irritation, but when the stars echo my voice back at me, it just sounds innocent and sweet, as if I had started singing and broken off mid-song. That's how my voice always sounds, regardless of my mood. Its serves me well when I want to express emotions such as happiness and joy. But anger? Frustration? Perhaps I'm better off leaving those emotions within me where they belong.

I sink to the ground as the night grows quiet again after my outburst. How easily frustrated I am for someone who at least has a definite future to depend upon. But I'd been so sure that I was close to finding my family. In the five years since I first saw myself joining them, I've been all over the world—Australia, Asia, Africa, Europe—looking for any setting that even remotely resembles the leafy-green forest that I've seen them running through in my visions. But, while Japan and Italy and France were excellent places for me to develop my ever-expanding fashion sense, they were useless to me when it came to finding my family. Disgruntled, but not shaken in my resolve, I had been heading west. I was even being so thorough as to comb the deserts and plains of the South, just in case the woods I'd seen were actually some tropical oasis in the middle of Texas. There wasn't much I had left to cover, so I knew it was only a matter of time; that my searching would soon be over.

But now it seems I have something else to search for.

I've had a lot of time to master my foresight—I know its strengths and its limitations. I know that the future changes—often—and I know that spur-of-the-moment decisions can cause what _was_ an absolutely certain future to dissolve completely. I also know that my visions are dependant upon both mental and physical proximity. I have to know someone in order to see what he or she will do—I can't simply pick out a random person in Africa and know what they're going to have for dinner that evening. The only time I ever see faces that I don't know is when the people or creatures that those faces belong to directly impact me. I've avoided plenty of potential fights over the years by seeing when I am about to encounter others of my kind who do not share the same tendency towards peace as I. But they are strangers, and they disappear from my mind as soon as I make the decision that leads me on a different course. Never have I seen one such stranger that stays in my vision for more than the second it takes for me to avoid them.

So, _what changed?_

Something must have, because I see _him_ now as I have never seen anyone before: in perfect clarity, in perfect precision, in perfect detail. At first, I had thought that he was just another predator that I was getting too close to, and that I would have to avoid him as I avoided the others. But that notion was dispelled when I noticed that I saw him running through the mountains, chasing the sun West. He's nowhere near me, and is headed on a path that I decided two days ago not to take. His future has nothing to do with my own, so why am I seeing it? Sometimes this whole foresight thing makes no sense at all.

So I do the only thing I can do when the facts I'm presented with appear to contradict themselves: I sit, and watch, and wait for something to click into place, for something to make sense again. And as I watch, I suddenly know what this reminds me of—that night, all those years ago when I wrestled with myself for hours so I could avoid killing that little human girl. The visions I had seen that night were nothing short of gruesome—me, sinking my teeth into her little neck, her parents finding her desiccated body in the morning, her brother throwing himself at the coffin before it was lowered into the ground, not fully understanding that his sister wasn't coming back. Those were terrible visions to have to sit and watch. This new, strange glimpse of the future that plays out before my eyes now couldn't possibly be more different. That night, I had watched myself become a monster. Tonight, I watch an angel.

He glides over the earth as a bird flies through air—fluidly and without effort. He even appears to have feathers—dozens of little crescent-shaped ones that line his skin wherever it is exposed. But his elegant gait is that of a lion, and like a lion, his movements are simultaneously graceful and terrifying in their beauty. To complete this second illusion, his straw-colored hair flows behind him as he runs, blowing in the wind behind him like a mane.

But the similarities he shares with creatures of the animal kingdom end there. The way his alabaster skin shimmers in the sunlight assures me that whatever process created me into this immortal life created him as well. Moreover, the statuesque symmetry of his body is far more perfect than has ever been seen in any mere human. And his face… In all my years on this earth, I have never seen anything more breathtaking than this face. There are no words to describe it, save for saying that each feature is more impossibly beautiful than the next, with his eyes being the most magnificent of them all. I know it's shameful for me to think of his eyes as beautiful when I know how high the cost of human life must have been to turn them that deep shade of red. But they are, and I do, though I can't help but wonder how amber might look when set against his hair: gold on gold. It's an appealing thought.

As I continue to watch him (quite shamelessly, I must admit), I begin to notice that as he runs, he appears to be wrestling with a range of dichotomous emotions. One moment, he will raise his head and laugh at the sky, as though he has been chained for a long time, and this is his first excursion in his newfound freedom. But in other moments, he will breathe in sharply, close his eyes, and shake his head, as if he is trying to loose some memory from his mind. In such moments, he seems to quicken his pace, as though he could outrun whatever memory is haunting him. But these moods disappear just as quickly as they came, and then he begins to smile again joyfully, completely at peace.

So enraptured am I by his movements that I almost forget that my voyeurism has a purpose—I am supposed to be trying to understand why I'm _seeing_ this creature, not merely reveling in his beauty. No sooner do I begin to _really _concentrate than my mind starts to work again, and I realize that I was wrong, that this is not the first time I've seen a vision of a future that I haven't been a part of.

Ever since I saw that first vision of myself with my family at Christmas, I've seen bits and pieces of other times we will share—some of the places we'll live, some of the jobs we'll have, some of the people we'll meet—but always, _always_ I can see myself clearly in these visions. But this wasn't always so. On that first night, all those years ago, I saw them hunting. There were five of them then; it was a vision of a time in their lives before I meet them.

So why did I see them then? A few possibilities come to my mind. I could have seen them because I _needed _to see them. In that moment, I had made a bargain with myself to choose death over any course that would lead me to take a human's life. I _needed _them to show me how to live. It's possible. But then, I've had other hours of great need in my life, and never have they been answered with such an uncharacteristically impersonal vision as on that night. So what else? Perhaps my family doesn't exist. Perhaps my over-strained mind conjured them out of desperation on that evening, and I've been chasing a fantasy ever since. Again, it's possible. But like the first option, I've had moments of desperation since, and I've never had any phantom illusions in them.

So what else?

_What if_ in the annals of whatever fate that governs this world, it was already scripted, from that first night, that I belonged with this family. What if there are some decisions that are made, not by humans or immortals, but by some unseen but omnipotent force that watches over us all. What if what I saw that night and what I'm seeing tonight are the results of such divine decisions, which were made long before I even came into existence. What if I saw my family that night because somehow, though we had never met, we were already destined to come together. What if I'm seeing this beautiful creature now because he, too, is already a part of who I am?

.

.

.

Try as I might, I can find no argument in that logic. It is not only possible, but probable. I can pray that it is true. If it is, there's one definite way to find out. If the creature I see today is destined to be a part of my future, I have only one thing to do, one decision to make before I see it come to fruition. I've learned since my last experience with such a vision—it took me twenty years to see myself becoming a part of my family. It won't take me so long this time.

_I will find him_.

I will. I can't see it clearly yet—some details are still fuzzy. But I see him standing beneath a bright star that is reflecting in the light of the moon. His hair is damp and falling into his eyes--eyes which are dark with a sadness I don't quite understand. But when he looks at me, his eyes widen in wonder, and when I offer him my hand, he takes it gladly. And then…

And then it's Christmas again, and I'm standing around the piano, singing carols with my family. Only now, there is no fuzzy, blurry shape in the picture. Now _he _is standing next to me, holding my hand, and gazing gently, not at the vision of perfect harmony that surrounds us, but directly into my eyes.

And so it's true.

_He has been here all along._


	12. Jasper: March, 1948

**A/N: Another short one from Jasper, and not his best. But, joy!, it's his last before he finds Alice. Which reminds me. I plan on publishing the next two chapters simultaneously, so it may be a little longer before my next update. I'm going to start Alice tonight though, so maybe it'll all get done by tomorrow evening. We'll see. I know what Alice is going to say, but Jasper is, as always, being rather frustratingly reticent. Hopefully he'll begin talking again soon.**

**Another quick note. The traffic to this story has been getting exponentially greater every day. I couldn't be more thrilled... or terrified; thrilled that people are reading, and terrified that I'm not living up to peoples' expectations. I hope that, if you like what you're reading, or even if you don't, you will please take the time to tell me so. Even if it's just a lame emoticon, I'd love to know what you think.  
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**Also, I wanted to say a particular and personal word of thanks to Dilidilzz86 who has been there since the beginning, and who has reviewed pretty much every chapter so far. I love you. Seriously. Thanks so much for sticking with me!**

**I'm running out of ways to say this, so today I'll settle for bluntness: Stephenie Meyer owns it all.**

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Jasper**

"You need to hunt," Peter whispers from across the room, hopin', probably, that his non-confrontational tone will lessen the severity of my response. It has the opposite effect. I slam the book I'm only pretendin' to read down on the table in front of me so hard that the table seems to implode, and for a moment, the room is thick with a cloud of splinters and paper and nails. I'm too angry to feel ashamed as I stalk out of the house, but once I get outside, deep in the woods, I feel regret beginnin' to work its way into my mind; regret, not because I broke the damn table, but because I know that the real object of my anger is not Peter, but myself. Peter was only tellin' me what I already know: that I'm starvin', and that extreme hunger causes extreme irritability. Peter and Charlotte try to tiptoe around my constantly sour mood as much as possible, but even their patience is beginnin' to wear thin. As is mine. I'm tired of bein' hungry, I'm tired of bein' frustrated, I'm tired of bein' _tired_ of things.

Wasn't this all supposed to get easier?

It's been more than three years since the night I left Texas. That night, I made a promise to myself that I would become a better man. Given the lifestyle I was leavin' behind me, I didn't expect that promise to be so difficult to keep.

It took me awhile to get used to this new life. The first six months that I traveled across the North with Peter and Charlotte, I found myself constantly lookin' over my shoulder, constantly on the offensive. I found it difficult to be around other vampires, civilized as most of them were, without bein' tense in anticipation of a fight. After all, I'd been a soldier for almost eighty-four years countin' my time in the Confederate Army, and such obsessive habits are difficult to break. But over time, the patters of my old life began to dissolve, and I was finally able to appreciate and enjoy certain aspects of the simple life of a nomad. And in the long months of nearly interminable night that occur in the extreme northern regions of Canada, I finally did see those lights—those brilliant strokes of flame that paint the blackened sky in swirls of the most awesome colors— that Peter had described, and he was right: I never felt so small.

But though in the last three years I have experienced the extremes of beauty and tranquility, I have never truly experienced peace. Always, always I am haunted by the memory of those I've killed. The screams of my victims, the shudder of their last breaths, the feel of their lifeless bodies in my hands—these are memories that never fade. I was a fool to have thought that I could run away from my past. Vampires die, and people die, but memories never die. Instead, they become ghosts that follow, haunt, and torture you for as long as you live. And since my life will continue indefinitely, I suppose I am damned to be tortured by my ghosts until time itself ceases to exist. Such is no more than I deserve.

The worst of it all is that the number of ghosts that haunt me continues to rise. Try as I might, I cannot stop killin'. Though I am able to kill less often now that I no longer require the massive strength that a weekly feedin' provides, I still need to kill monthly, at least, to stay alive. I keep testin' my resistance, tryin' to go one day, one hour, one _minute_ longer than I went in my last period of abstinence, but all my work is, ultimately, in vain since no matter how long I am able to go without takin' a life, someone will eventually have to die so that I can continue to live.

The thought is unbearable. It's been two weeks now since I last fed, but the memory of it is still fresh in my mind. I've taken to killin' older and older humans, tryin' to justify my actions by tellin' myself that the older they are, the closer they are to their natural end. But all such justification is nullified the moment I feel their final emotions. This last victim was in her nineties—my eldest victim yet. I went to her when she was sleepin' one night, and I could tell by her scattered breathin' and slowly fadin' heartbeat that she was about to breathe her last breath. But this imminent death was so different from the countless others I've been witness to in my life—it was so peaceful, so quiet that she almost seemed happy. I wanted to just let her die, there in her sleep. I didn't want to interfere. I wanted her last feelings on this earth to be happy and content.

_But I couldn't_. The thirst within me was too strong and it ran too deep. The scent of her blood, regardless of how slowly it was runnin' in her veins, was too much for me. Once again, I became the monster I so detest. I sunk my teeth into her neck, and at my touch, she woke. The peace was gone, and in its place: terror. If I hadn't learned long ago to bite deep enough on the first bite to rupture my victims' vocal chords, she would have screamed. And though she had already been dyin', she still fought with all the tenacity she could muster to preserve her life. Of course, all her physical struggles were in vain. But what she couldn't have known in those last moments before her death, was that her mental struggles—her horror and panic and, of course, her prayers—these did more to affect me than any blow she could ever have placed upon my body.

As I buried her that night, I was filled with the most terrible self-loathin' that I have ever felt. Of course, I say that every time I stand over the unmarked grave of one of my victims. But every time it gets worse, every time it gets harder. Every time I find a way to hate myself more. Instead of gettin' easier, it's gettin' worse, so that even now, despite my obvious thirst, I can't imagine killin' anyone ever again. But I will. I have to.

Peter and Charlotte think I've gone insane, that my time with Maria has broken me beyond all hope of repair. They try to reason with me that we are to humans as humans are to cattle. They argue that there is a great hierarchy of command amongst sentient beings, and we, vampires, sit at the top. Perhaps this logic works for them, but it does nothin' to alleviate my guilt. Of course, I can't expect them to understand when it's all but impossible for them to _feel_ as I _feel_. Only _I_ must die every death along with my victims; only _I_ must suffer as they suffer. And every time I do, every time I live through another one of these deaths, I find that a piece of me does not survive. Thousands of little pieces of me have died along with my victims, so that I can no longer rightly call myself whole. I keep thinkin' that the next time I kill, that last piece of me will die as well, and there'll be nothin' left. Like that last, fleetin' breath taken in the throes of death, I'll just dissipate into the night air.

If only my death could be so simple; I would gladly welcome such an end.

Truth is, I've been toyin' with the idea of my own death for a long time now, and perhaps, given my outburst today, it's time to act on that idea. I can't bear the thought of killin' again, and as I seem to have no other choices but Kill or Die, I will willingly take that second option. Since starvin' myself doesn't appear to work, I will try and ask Peter and Charlotte to do it for me. I expect I know what their answer will be, and so I will perhaps ask some of the other nomads I have met in my wanderings. If all of these options fail me, I will return to Maria. I could feel her plannin' to kill me just before I left her, and it was only luck that Peter arrived before it came down to a fight. Back then, I would have fought hard enough to win. But now that I know that my death will stand in the stead of the thousands that will remain alive because of it, I will remain silent but grateful as she rips each limb from my worthless body.

There is, however, somethin' I want to do before I leave this particular world (somethin', that is, besides replacin' the table I broke today—it's the least I can do for the only two people who have ever shown me an ounce of compassion since I was born into this life). I recall a promise that still wants fulfillment—a promise my father made to take me to the place of his birth. I can probably go for about two more weeks without feedin'—that's more than enough time to make it to Philadelphia. I never really got to say goodbye to my father, and perhaps returnin' to the scene of his childhood will offer me some of the farewell that we never got to share. It's March, so it's probably too late for snow, which is unfortunate. But at least I'll get to take some pleasant memory with me as I travel towards my death. For when I get too hungry to go on, I _will_ seek death out. No matter what, I will not be the cause of any further deaths save my own.

I wish there were another way. Now that I have tasted the beauty of this world, I wish that I could live long enough to experience all of it. Above all, I wish that I could somehow experience the peace that Peter and Charlotte find in one another. This is the only emotion I have ever truly wanted to feel, and cruelly, it is the only emotion that I have never felt first-hand. But there is no other way, and perhaps, after all, such things are not possible for me. From what I understand of this emotion, in order for it to be strong and lastin', each person involved must give part of themselves to the other. With all the little pieces of me that have gone missin' over the years, I now have nothin' left to give.


	13. Alice: March 7th, 1948

**A/N: Okay, so here it is. I hope I did their first meeting justice. Jasper's chapter will be up shortly--I'm going to go back through and edit it one last time.**

**As always, thank you to my readers and reviewers. And please, especially for these next two chapters, please review if you have the time.**

**S. Meyer owns everything, blah blah blah.**

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Alice****  
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I've been here every day for almost a week. I know every inch of this diner by now—I know that there are exactly seventeen golden stars littered around the interior in a feeble attempt at decoration. I know that the neon moon that hangs above the soda fountain makes the star above the doorway appear to glow when it gets dark outside. I know how many cups, saucers, forks, spoons, and knives sit behind the counter. I know that there are twelve stools and six booths, and that their busiest day is Saturday. I even know what kind of pie they serve on Wednesdays. I _hate_ that I know what kind of pie they serve on Wednesdays. The waiters know me by name now too, and they know that I am waiting for someone. Of course, with my blasted eternally-short hair and my unnaturally pale skin, they probably also think that I'm a war-widow, just released from a mental institution who is waiting for a husband who will never return home. But the fact that I leave them all a generous tip at the end of each day even though I never order anything is enough to stop them from asking any further questions.

I know I will see him when the light is just beginning to fade in the sky. I know it will be raining, and I know it will be so cold that I will be able to see peoples' breaths as they pass him. I know there will be seven people in the diner, including myself, when I first catch sight of him. I know that the long, tweed coat I bought in France will be slung over the stool next to me, and I know that I'll be wearing the blue dress I bought in Italy. Of course, neither of those two things help me much, since I've been wearing the same outfit every day since Monday (another reason I suspect the people who work here think I'm insane). I know it will be soon, but I don't know _when_. And so I sit, and wait, and watch.

Needless to say, I've had a lot of time to think in the last six days. Mostly, I've been thinking about the last twenty-eight years of my life, and how much has changed, not only for me, but for the world around me in that time. In my lifetime (that I remember), I've witnessed the advent of talking pictures, of television, of helicopters, and of jet-engine planes. I've seen cameras that can take pictures that develop instantly, and antibiotics that can cure almost any imaginable disease. Though I don't remember it, alcohol apparently used to be illegal in the United States, and now it's consumed freely and enthusiastically in nearly every social setting. I can vote now, from which I infer that I wasn't able to do so before. I even own a car—something called a Porsche Cabrio—which I'm very fond of driving when I need respite from my seemingly endless searching. And nylons… in truth, that's one invention I wish I'd thought of first.

But with all these changes in all this time, nothing has ever been invented that can fill the hole that exists when a soul finds itself without its soul mate. I've had to live with a hole like that all my life, though I didn't always know exactly what it was that I was lacking. Over the years I tried to fill the emptiness inside me with traveling, and work, and the small comfort that my transitory human acquaintances gave me. I even tried to fill it with the family I know I will become a part of, but still, _always,_ something was missing. No, only love exists to fill such a hole, and it must be a love that is deep, and honest, and true; it must be a reuniting of souls.

Outside it begins to rain. The family that was sitting at a table at the end of the bar pays their check and leaves, and as they walk out the door, I can see their warm breaths forming miniature clouds in the air. I don't need to count the number of people left in here to know that only seven of us remain. The grey light outside is slowly beginning to fade to black, and…

_my god… my visions didn't do him justice._

He's dressed simply—black, high cut pants, suspenders, silk tie, fedora—and even though it's near freezing outside, the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to his elbows, and he's not wearing a jacket. He doesn't need one of course—I know he doesn't feel the cold—but the lack of one is indicative of his failure to be fully comfortable with trying to pass as a human. But what I know, and what every person who looks at him from within this diner knows, is that no mere human could possibly look so beautiful—coat or no coat.

As the rain dampens his shirt, it makes the material translucent so that the sculpted muscles of his torso become visible in all their perfection. His pale skin seems to glow against the gradual blackening of the sky, and the tiny beads of rain that collect on his skin shimmer in the reflection of the diner's neon lights almost as brightly as if he were standing in the sun. I hear the waitress next to me gasp as she notices him, and for a moment I want to run out to him, wrap my arms around his waist, and scream "he's mine!" as loudly as possible. But I don't. Because he's not mine.

Not yet.

He takes off his hat and runs his fingers through his beautiful blonde hair. I know that gesture. I've seen it a thousand times before. _Concern, frustration, worry, shame… indecision_. I don't need to look at his black eyes to know that he hasn't fed in a long time. Too long. I know that he's worried that if he comes in here, the temptation will be too much. But my visions have allowed me to see that particular part of the future, and I know that he will be fine. Because as soon as he walks in the door, he will see me, and I will go to him and offer him my hand.

That's as far as the vision goes. Because there is still one more decision to be made, and he has to be the one to make it. In my mind, I see two possible futures—one that only begins when he takes my hand, and one that ends abruptly when he turns and runs out the door. I can't force him to love me; I can't force him to want me. All I can do is offer him the choice and pray that he has been looking for me all this time, just as I have been looking for him.

So silently that I know he won't be able to hear me through the walls of the diner, I whisper his name.

"Jasper."

It's only one word, but in it are a thousand more. A thousand things I say to him in my mind every time I speak his name aloud. A thousand things that I have whispered to him every day since I first saw him in my future. A thousand things that I would give my very life to be able to say to him now, but which I know must wait to be said until he has made his choice. A thousand words, which, as he tries to decide whether or not to come inside, I allow to reverberate in my mind like a softly echoing prayer:

_I've seen the things you've done. I've seen all the lives you've taken, and I've seen all the blood you've shed. More even than you, I've felt the empty holes that have perforated the world when the lives you take are extinguished—I see the grieving families, the mourning lovers, the tortured friends—and I have felt the suffocating pain of every loss as if it were my own. Though I have not seen the entirety your past, I know that it was only more of the same. I know that you were born into this life and told that in order to live you had to take life from others. I know that you were bred to be a soldier, and that you have accomplished that so-called "duty" with devastating accuracy._

_I cannot measure the sum of the deaths you have been responsible for, but I __can__ measure the toll each one has taken on you. Each time you are forced to kill, I see how the fire in your eyes shines a little less brightly, so that, where there once was a burning flame, there is now only a dying ember. The woman who created you told you that there was only one way to live, and because of that false instruction you've lived your life believing that you have no choice but to be a monster. You blame yourself for all the lives that you have taken, but your blame is grossly misplaced. She—Maria—she has been the true cause of all of your misery. And though I have never in my life been responsible for the death of a conscientious being, if I ever cross her path I swear I will murder her for what she has done to you._

_Because I've seen the way your pale lips part into a perfect bow when you smile. I've seen how some of the fire returns to your eyes when you watch the sun set over the ocean. I've lain with you beneath the sky at night and felt you shudder at the beauty of the stars. I've felt the joy in your step as I've run with you across meadows and over mountains, and I know the way your breath hitches when you catch sight of something beautiful. I know the way you raise your left eyebrow when you're confused. I know the way you run your fingers through your hair when you're being indecisive, and I know the sound of your sigh when you finally find your resolve. I know the exact shade of the white of your skin, and I know the name of every color that reflects off your body when you sparkle in the sun._

_I know your __soul__, and I've seen that, despite the things you've done, it is kind, and pure, and true. You concentrate so ardently on the terrible things that you have done that you forget to look for the things that make you good. I've seen the way you protect your friends Peter and Charlotte when you think the possibility of danger is near. I've sat with you for hours as you've read book after book about our kind, hoping that there is another way for us to live. And though Maria never taught you anything of beauty, or joy, or love, you have found all of these things on your own. Likewise have you discovered on your own the precious value of every human life, and because of that you are now willing to sacrifice your own life to prevent any further deaths. Can you tell me now that such a soul as yours is not good?_

_And what's more—I've seen the things you __will__ do if you can find it in your heart to stay with me. I've seen the joy you will bring to your brothers, I've seen the calming influence you will have upon your sister, and I've seen the pride your surrogate mother and father will feel every time they look at you and see how far you've come. I see that you will be __loved__._

_I've been there every time you watch a couple walking together and think to yourself that you will never feel love. I know you think you're undeserving of anything except hate and loathing, and I know you feel that your suffering is a just punishment for all your sins. I know you are lonely, and I know that you feel that your loneliness will continue even until your death, which I know you hope will be soon. But you have __never__ been alone. I have been with you in every moment; even the moments that I don't have any conscious recollection of—even in those I was there with you. I have been with you always, just as you have always been with me, and if you let me, I will be with you in every moment from now on. I will show you that there is another way of life, and I will show you, even if it takes an eternity, that you are not only worthy, but deserving of love._

_I've seen all you've done, I know all this, and I love you, not in spite of it, but __because__ of it. Just like you, I was given a choice, and I have chosen you. You have been tested and tried in all the worst ways imaginable, and I know that you believe that you have lost yourself somewhere in the years of suffering that you've endured. But __I know you,__ and I know that you have a beautiful soul. And oh, how it will shine if it is given the chance! I assure you: you will hardly recognize yourself if you allow me to show you the inner beauty that you have been blind to all these years. But __I__ will recognize you, for in the clarity and certainty that love provides, I have seen it all along. You have __always__ been my soul, my love…_

"_Jasper."_

Outside the rain is picking up. I watch him grimace at it, and then sigh as he resolves to come inside. Every human around me stops breathing in anticipation when he enters the diner. Above him in the doorway, the golden star shines brightly in the reflected light of the neon moon.

I lower myself off my stool and make my way towards him. I thought I would feel apprehension, fear, nervousness, panic… unworthiness even. But for the first time in my entire life, I know what it means to feel whole. In finding him I have been made complete, and this feeling of total and utter devotion I have in this moment… well, it has been absolutely worth everything that it took for me to get here.

But still…

"_You've kept me waiting a long time."_


	14. Jasper: March 7th, 1948

**A/N: Jasper was beyond frustrating to write. He also seemed to be channeling some Edward in his sentiments. I definitely had a lot more fun with Alice. But I hope at least some of this is readable.**

**In addition, there is a rather lengthy note on accuracy at the end of this chapter. I had a lot of fun researching for these two chapters but I know most of you won't find this nearly as interesting as I do. Feel free to skip it if you so desire.**

**S. Meyer owns it all.**

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**Jasper**

"_I'm sorry, ma'am."_

What a strange thing for me to say. A hundred possible combinations of words ran through my head in the second it took for me to answer her, and none of them sounded even remotely like that.

_Who are you?_ This would have been a better start. She'd walked… no, she'd _danced_ over to me like she already knew me, but I'm quite sure that I would have remembered her if we had ever met. Our kind, we don't forget things, and so I'm absolutely certain I've never seen her before. But in the air that radiates between us, I do feel some sense of familiarity. There is something dim and somewhat recognizable there… like perhaps she is a nameless face in one of my dim human memories. But even that conclusion seems somehow wrong… Yes, _who are you?_ would have definitely been a better start.

_You sure do smell nice. _That too, would have been acceptable, though perhaps a little awkward. But she does smell absolutely wonderful. I can't quite place what it reminds me of. But it's intoxicatin', like cedar and wisteria, like fresh-cut grass and sun-bleached straw… And then I realize what it is that she reminds me of: she smells like _home_. I haven't been there since the day I joined the army, so maybe that's why it took me so long to recognize it. But I'd know that scent anywhere. She smells exactly like my home.

_You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen_. Also a good option, and unequivocally true. I have seen a lot of things in my life—plenty of awe-inspirin' views from the very tops of mountains, plenty of vast, open plains, plenty of heartbreakingly beautiful sunsets… and yes, plenty of gorgeous women, both mortal and immortal. But in all my eighty-five years on this earth, I've never seen anything as beautiful as she. Her porcelain skin, her short black hair, her petite frame, every curve of her from her shoulders to her calves—everythin' about her is unimaginably perfect. And her eyes—have there ever been such eyes? The way the gold sparkles beneath the black fringe of her lashes… It should be a crime to look so seductive.

_I think you might have me mixed up with someone else_. Though this would have been the saddest thing of all for me to say, it should probably have been the easiest. Because it is glaringly obvious, that this strange, perfect, golden-eyed fairy that's standin' in front of me has made some mistake. She's far too angelic, far too beautiful, far too _good_ to truly want to have anythin' to do with me.

So why, of all the things I could have, _should_ have said, did I settle for apologizing to her? And when was the last time I called _anyone_ ma'am? And—what was that thing I did with my head when I spoke? Did I _bow_ to her? Where did _that _come from?

For some reason, my obvious confusion makes her laugh. And her laughter… her laughter is like the sound of a thousand tiny bells all ringin' in perfect harmony. It also appears to be infections, for when I hear it, I can't help but smile. When was the last time I smiled? I find I can't remember.

And then… then I _feel it._

It. That indescribable emotion that draws friends to one another, that unites families, that caused Peter to run away with Charlotte—that emotion is radiatin' from her very soul right now. And what's more, I can feel it within me as well. Where there once was only a vast, bottomless well of darkness, there now exists a bright flame of joy, and elation and… there are no words for this. For the first time in more than eighty-five years, I feel warm.

And then she does the strangest thing of all: she holds out her hand to me. I try to make my mind work, try and make it tell me what I should do. But somethin' deeper than reason has already given me my answer—before I know what I'm doin', I find my hand in hers. I look to her face expectin' to see anger, hate, embarrassment—somethin' that suggests that I've overstepped some boundary. Instead, I see that her eyes are closed and her lips are parted into the softest smile. She's _happy_.

If my skin weren't stronger than diamonds, I'm sure the fire within me would have burned me to ashes by now. Everythin', _everythin'_ except this flame has disappeared. Hunger, thirst, despair, self-loathin', guilt—all of those are gone the moment she touches my hand. Somehow, at her touch, even the designations Her and I have disappeared—suddenly, there is only We, Our, _Us_.

But I don't even know her. _How can this be possible?_

Suddenly, her eyes flash open and her soft smile turns into a mischievous grin.

"Come on," she says. For a moment, she lets go of my hand as she turns to pick up her coat and place a substantial stack of bills on the counter behind her. Before I can ask any questions, she takes my hand in hers again, and pulls me out the door, back out into the rain. Only it's not rainin' anymore. The temperature's been droppin' all day, and so what once were drops of rain are now silvery flakes of snow.

We walk together for who knows how long 'fore my mind finally starts workin' again. When it finally does, I find that we're walkin' down a deserted sidewalk, several blocks from the diner. She's still holdin' my hand, and every now and then I see her glance up at me out of the corner of her eye, like she's waitin' for me to say somethin'. I guess, since she sure seems to know me, it's only fittin' that I should be the one askin' all the questions. But there are so many—where should I begin? She helps me.

"Finally," she says, that same mischievous grin still upon her lips, "I was beginning to think you'd never snap out of it…" She laughs, and again, bells ring out in the air. The sound of it puts me instantly at ease.

I start with the easiest question first.

"Ma'am, I apologize. You appear to know me from somewhere, yet I can't seem to recall your name."

She wraps her little fingers more tightly around mine. "You don't know me, Jasper, but I know you. I've been watching you for years, and I knew that we'd meet here tonight. My name is Alice."

And so the angel has a name. _Alice_. I'm so caught up in the sound of it that it takes a moment for the rest of her sentence to sink in.

"You've been… watchin' me?"

She sighs. "I'm sorry, I know that's not exactly the first thing you want to hear, but I saw that it would be better if I told you everything, right from the beginning. I can see the future, Jasper, and I've been able to see you in mine for three years now. And once I was able to see us meeting some day, I found that I could see your immediate future as well, even though I wasn't a part of it. So I've been keeping tabs on you, trying to figure out when you'd be ready for us to meet. And now… here we are."

_You've kept me waiting a long time_. With this explanation to back them up, these words suddenly make infinitely more sense. That she's able to see the future doesn't really surprise me at all—I've known a lot of vampires in my life, and many of them have had similar abilities. I myself can manipulate others' emotions, and I would be a hypocrite to be offended that she's been lookin' in on me. But then, if she's seen me, then she's seen _everythin'_… everythin' I've never wanted anyone else to know about me, she surely knows.

I stop walkin' and let go of her hand.

"You've seen everythin' I've done for the past… three years was it?" She nods. I close my eyes in pain. "You know then. You know what I am."

I feel her fingers brush my cheek, and though I know it's wrong to, I find comfort in her touch.

"What we _both_ are," she corrects. "I've had a much different life than you have, Jasper, but we are fundamentally the same. The strength, the speed, the senses—I know what I am only because I've watched you read the word again and again in your books."

I feel her wrap her arms around my waist and lay her head upon my chest. The fire within me rages, and though I know I should, I can't bring myself to step away from her.

"And we're alike in something else as well" she continues, softly now. "Neither of us wants to be a monster. And Jasper, I'm here to tell you that there _is_ another choice. There _is_ another way to live, and whoever created you did you a gross disservice by letting you think otherwise. We don't have to kill humans to survive. Animal blood is an adequate substitute. It doesn't taste nearly as good, of course, but taste seems a small price to pay when weighed against a human life."

It's too much, too much for my already overtaxed brain to handle. As gently as I can, I remove her arms from my waist, and walk over to the edge of the street, the gutter, where I sink to my knees and bury my head in my hands in shame.

_A small price to pay_. A small price indeed. But haven't I already reckoned that cost? Haven't I already weighed my life in that very same balance and found myself wantin'? Haven't I hated myself every minute of every miserable day of my existence because of what I am? Haven't I searched for years for another way, and always come up empty? And all this time, it's been a matter of _taste_?

I thought I was a monster before, but I truly hadn't know the extent of my own capacity for evil until this moment. How many have died at my hands over an issue of _taste_?

I feel her come up behind me and place her hands on mine. She tries to gently remove my head from my hands, but the shame is too great, and I won't let her. I don't want her to touch me; I don't want her to even _look_ at me. Finally, she gives up, kneels down next to me, and wraps her arms around as much of my body as will fit between them. I can feel that she means to be comforting, but her actions only make the self-hate I feel within me stronger. Here she is, getting' her pretty dress all dirty, 'cause she's kneelin' in a gutter… with _me_.

"How _can _you?" I hiss, tryin' to keep my voice as controlled as possible. "How can you sit there and touch me like that? How can you hold me when you've seen what I've done? How can you try'n comfort me when you've seen all the people I've—"

My voice breaks into a sob. _Too much_.

She unwraps her arms from around me. _Good, _I think to myself_, this is what I want. I want for her to leave me, to forget me. I don't want to be responsible for ruinin' her life as well._

But, as she has done since the moment I first saw her, she surprises me. I feel her place her hands over mine, and then I feel her cheek upon my head.

"_This_ is how. This pain that you feel right now, this remorse, this guilt—_this _is why I'm still here. And _this _is how I know that you will change. I've seen it, Jasper. I've seen you change. I wish I could show you. I wish you could see the things I've seen for your future—your goodness, your gentleness, your sense of humor, your compassion. I know you believe you've lost all of these things, but they're all still there, and _this_" – she squeezes my hands tightly in her own – "_this_ is how I know."

She sounds so sure. One of the great ironies of my life is that I have never, _never_ been sure of myself. But other people have always seen in me what I could not see. The army promoted me, despite my age, because they saw that I had leadership. Maria, damn her, kept me alive because she saw my potential, my "charisma." Peter rescued me from Maria because he knew that, unlike Maria, I was not evil. All of these things I had doubted about myself, and yet all of these things had been true. So now, should I trust this angel when she tells me, with absolute conviction, that I am good?

No, I can't be sure. But for the first time, there is a real possibility of hope.

I sigh, and this time, when she tries to remove my hands from my head, I let her.

"Maybe," I say, my voice barely a whisper. "Maybe I can change. I _want _to change, you know I do. But it's somethin' I'm gonna have to do on my own. I can't, I _won't_ ask you to be there with me. You need to go, you need to leave me. Now. If I fail… I won't ruin you as well."

With her finger, she lifts my chin to I'm starin' directly into her eyes.

"I want to stay, Jasper. It's a choice I made long ago. I want to stay with you."

"But _why_?" I ask, refusin' to believe her. "Surely you've seen that I have nothin' to offer you; nothin' to give. I'm broken and empty. There's nothin' left in me anymore. Why would you want to stay with someone like that?"

She smiles and places her hand on my chest, right over where my heart is. The unbelievable fire that I felt in the diner is back, threatenin' to burst through my skin again. My breath hitches in surprise at the force of it.

"Can you feel that?" she asks, as she places her cheek over her hand.

"Mmmm…" It's the only response I can muster.

"I can feel it too," she whispers.

And then I know. It's as though in her tiny little hand, she holds every part of me that has ever gone missin'. She puts me back together. She fills me and makes me whole again. And the fact that she feels it too? I don't know much about her, but it's possible that she's been broken as well. She might well have a hole inside of her that's just as empty and just as dark as mine. And maybe, just maybe, we fit together in all the right places to make each other whole.

For the first time tonight, I do what I've been longin' to do ever since I first saw her: I wrap my arms around her tiny shoulders and hug her close to my chest. Yes, she is exactly the right size and shape to fill the hole inside of me. I can only pray that I can do the same for her.

* * *

I don't know how long we've sat like this, but it must have been awhile, for when she suddenly yanks herself from my chest, her hair is nearly completely white with snow.

"Oh!" she squeaks in the most adorable whisper, "we need to go or we're going to miss it!"

I raise my eyebrow in confusion. The mischievous grin is back on her face as she takes my hand.

"Do you trust me?" she asks. I nod. "Then come on!"

And with that, she's pullin' me through the snow-covered streets as fast as she can. If I weren't bein' dragged by someone who can see the future, I'd be concerned that people would see us travelin' at this unnatural speed. But as it is, I figure she's already got that covered.

Within minutes we've left the city and are travelin' down one of the country roads on the outskirts of town. She leads me up a hill that overlooks a vast field, and then stops. I open my mouth to ask her where we are, but she raises her hand to stop me.

"Thirteen seconds," she says, "just wait."

I do, and thirteen seconds later the clouds above us break and the bright light of the moon illuminates the snow-covered fields below us. In the distance, I can see the snow fallin' on the city and the river.

"I know you like the snow," she says, wrapin' her arms around my waist. "This is the last time we'll get to see it this winter. It'll all melt by tomorrow. I just didn't want you to come all this way and miss seeing it like this."

I came to this place a week ago thinkin' that this was the last thing I wanted to see before I died. Now it has become the first image I'll see when I think about the beginnin' of my brand-new life. It's more beautiful than I ever could have imagined, and not because of the moon, or the snow, or the lights of the city, but because of _her_. Because _she's _here, holdin' me, and makin' me whole.

I pull us both to the ground, and then gather her in my arms again. I rest my cheek on her head, and for a moment, I just revel in the warmth our bodies seem to create when they're close like this.

"Alice," I whisper into her hair. "Alice, I love you."

It was supposed to stop at "Alice." I hadn't meant to say those other three words. I didn't _know_ those other three words, least not in that order. No one had ever said those words to me, and on the rare occasions when I'd heard people say them to each other, I never really understood what they meant. After all, every time I'd felt what people called "love," I'd felt it as a borrowed emotion—a thousand times less intense than what I feel for this beautiful girl in my arms.

And though I know without a doubt that I am in love with her, the moment I say the word, I know it is inadequate. There are no words that come close to expressin' what I feel for her. Quite literally she is the reason I'm alive. More than that, she is my future. I live only so that I can try and make her happy, the same way that she has already made me happier than I have ever been. She has _saved me_, and for that I am eternally and gratefully bound to her. What words are there that come close to expressin' that?

"Of course you do," she laughs, breakin' me from my thoughts. I smile with her, though in the back of my head I realize that her knowin' everythin' I'm gonna do before I do it might be a bit of the problem for the future. But that particular conversation can wait. For now, it's only her, here, in my arms.

She adjusts herself so that she's sittin' on my lap. With her fingertips she closes my eyelids, and then I feel her plantin' little kisses all the way up from my neck from my collarbone to my jaw. There she stops, and I feel her breath against my neck as she whispers into my ear.

"_I love you too. I always have_._"_

And then I feel her lips on mine.

* * *

**A/N: Some fun facts to share in my never-ending quest for accuracy: **

**1) When Alice says she hears a thousand words every time she hears Jasper's name, she really means it. The whole italicized section is exactly 1,000 words long (at least according to Word's count… I was too lazy to count it out by hand… so apparently my quest for accuracy does have its limitations). **

**2) All those things that Alice lists at the beginning of the story really were invented between 1920 and 1948. In addition, women got the right to vote on August 18th, 1920, and everyone got the right to drink again on December 5, 1933. (Also, on January 23, 1933, the "Lame Duck" amendment took effect, but this didn't really fit into the flow of the story, so I left it out.) Other notable inventions during this timeframe included Velcro, the Band Aid, the Slinky, and, you guessed it, sliced bread (1928)! **

**3) The Porsche 356 Cabrio was the first real Porsche ever manufactured. How excited was I when I found out that they started making them in 1948? So excited. Anyway, I doubt they made it in yellow, but if you want to see what it looks like, there's a link on my profile. **

**4) On March 7th, 1948, it really did both snow and rain in Philadelphia. Also, this date really was the last day it snowed period (before the next winter, that is). **

** 5) The diner mentioned remains nameless because, though I tried, I couldn't find a diner that had "moon" or "star" or "night" or "sky" in its name and also existed in Philadelphia in 1948. Drat. **

**6) I didn't like having to describe what Jasper was wearing in these chapters because the 40s, well, they really weren't a good time for male fashion. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that he's so outrageously good-looking that he could probably pull off anything, including a dress, pretty gracefully, so I let the suspenders slide. The fedora's hot in a very Indiana Jones kinda way though. And the white shirt in the rain… well, that was just my way of saying "F. you 40's fashion—when I see Jasper, he doesn't have any clothes on at all."**


	15. Alice: March 7th and 8th, 1948

**A/N: SORRY! Sorry sorry sorry. I know this took longer than usual, and really, I truly am sorry--especially after I got some wonderful comments about how timely I am in posting. I wrote the original manifestation of this chapter yesterday, and had it all ready to post when I realized that I actually kind of liked it a lot as a one-shot. So, this morning, I sadly highlighted everything I'd written, copied it to another document, and then started all over. **

**I tried to make the two scenes I wrote different enough that you can read them each and not have too much overlap. The format of each is similar in some ways, but the content is entirely different. You absolutely do not have to read my one-shot in order to enjoy the rest of All the Difference, so don't worry about it if you can't get to it.** **Of course, if you want to read it--especially if you want to review (hint hint)--that would be totally awesome as well.**

**A head's up for the rest of this story. I know now that it will be 20 chapters long, with two, hopefully brief epilogues at the end. I'll try to post consistently until then. To that end, I'm going to spend the rest of tonight working on Jasper's next chapter. I hope I'll finish it for you by late this evening, but if not, it will surely be done by tomorrow.  
**

**I got so many awesome reviews after my last post, and I just want to thank you all again. **

**.lla ti snwo reyeM einehphtS

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**

**Alice**

Tonight I learn that there are many different kinds of embraces.

The first embrace is one I give to Jasper as we sit together in the gutter. His face is buried in his hands in the most unbearable expression of pain I have ever seen, and the tears welling up in my soul as I watch him suffer are threatening to drown me in sorrow. I recognize this pain—it's the pain he feels when the ghosts of his past scream at him and tell him he is a monster. It's the pain he feels when he believes himself to be unworthy even of life. I've seen him suffer all this before, but now, finally, I am close enough to him to do something about it. I walk over to him and try to remove his hands from his head, and when that doesn't work, I kneel down next to him and wrap my arms around his body. I squeeze him as tightly as I can, as though my arms are the only things that are keeping him from falling into pieces. I feel him relax minutely beneath me, and so I know that it is working. _Comfort_. Comfort is our first embrace.

The second embrace is one Jasper gives to me. I tell him that I want to stay with him, and that this is a choice that I made long ago. I open my heart to him and show him all the love I have within me, hoping that feeling this will make him understand how impossible it would be for me to leave him. What I don't tell him is that all this time I've been terrified of _his_ response, of the possibility that he might not want to stay with me. Even now that I have told him of the options he has and of the future he might belong to, I worry that he might find it to be too much, and that the demons that haunt him will destroy him after all. But then he clutches me to his chest, and rests his chin on my head, and I know that his demons don't stand a chance. He wants to be rid of them so badly, and he trusts me when I tell him that I can help him. _Gratitude_, then, becomes our second embrace.

When we reach the hill that overlooks the city, he tells me he loves me. That's when I learn that _Words_ too, can be an embrace. How many times have I heard lovers whisper those words in each other's ears? How many times have I seen a mother kiss her child on the cheek and tell him she loves him? And how many times have I imagined myself in the place of one of those lovers, or in the place of that child? And now, here, on this night, those words spoken from Jasper's mouth put all of my fantasies to shame. I've never heard such beautiful words, and the happiness that I feel as his voice echoes in my ears seems about to burst out of me in a hot, bright flame. I say the words back to him, and though I feel him tremble when I press my lips to his, I know that his trembling is more in response to my words than my actions.

I would be content to linger in this moment for a while, but unfortunately, I soon discover that _Restraint_ is also one form of embrace. I see it in my mind moments before it happens—an ambulance carrying an injured man is about to pass by on the country road that borders the field below us. I have no way of knowing what happened to the man, but I do know that the smell of blood will be strong, and that it will exceedingly difficult for me to resist. And Jasper… for him the attack is inevitable. I know I'm smaller than him, and I know that even the minimal amount of human blood he already has flowing in his veins gives him a slight advantage when it comes to strength, but still, I have to try. If he takes this human now, I know what the extent of his regret will be, and I know that it will cause him to slip back into the darkness he was in when I found him.

As fast as I can, I knock him flat on the ground and pin his arms into the snow. For a split second, he is confused. But then he smells it—we both smell it—and his eyes go black with hunger.

I know he doesn't want to hurt me, and I know that really, deep down, he doesn't want to hurt the human either. But he hasn't fed in weeks, and I know only too well how the torturous fire that burns in our throats cancels out everything else. The human's future keeps changing—one minute I see him making it safely to the hospital, and the next I see Jasper crouched over him, licking the blood from his wounds. This changing future does me no good, so instead, I concentrate on what Jasper is doing beneath me. I see him snap at my head moments before he does it, and so I'm able to duck out of the way. When I see him get his feet beneath me and kick me in the stomach, I move so that he kicks only air. The moment my visions tell me that he will break free from my grasp, I lunge at him and catch him before he's able to go more than a few feet. There, I hold him from behind as he struggles furiously to free himself, all the time feeling the pain and desperation and regret that crashes between us like violent waves. Truly, Restraint is one embrace I wish I'd never had to learn.

_Remorse_ is another one, though of course I learn it quickly after I learn Restraint.

Against the odds I manage to prevent him from going after the ambulance. When the human's arrival at the hospital becomes the only future I can see, and when I'm sure his scent has disappeared completely from the air, I slowly begin to release Jasper from my grasp. His struggles stop when he sniffs at the air and can tell that the scent is gone, so I release him completely and back away. I'm afraid that he'll hate me for what I've done—I'm afraid that I've assumed too much by preventing him from getting the thirst he so obviously desires. Again, panic shoots through me when I think that this is all too much for him; that all my efforts have come too late.

He doesn't move from where I've left him kneeling on the ground. For the longest time he just stares, unblinking, at the road that the ambulance has taken. Even the memory of that smell still causes my throat to ache, and I can only think how much stronger the scorching must be for him. It's unbearable for me to think that I have been the cause of his pain, even if in doing so, I have prevented the loss of a human life.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, knowing that he can hear me.

For a moment, he does nothing. But then, almost quicker than I can comprehend, he is in front of me, clutching me to his chest and burying his face in my hair.

"_You're_ sorry?" he groans, "_you're sorry_? Alice… oh Alice… you have no idea how much I wanted to take him, how much I wanted him, but at the same time how much I wished I could resist him. Another life lost at my hands… that would have been insufferable… unforgivable. Especially now that I know there is another way. But you… You fought against my monster, and you—you kind gentle creature—you did what I could never do—you _won_. _You saved me_.

_I_ am the one who needs to apologize. I tried to hurt you—part of me _wanted _to hurt you. And you had to see me at my very worst. Though I know you say you've seen it before, surely seein' it like this, first hand, it is more terrible than you could've realized. I know you said before that you wanted to stay with me, but after this, I can't imagine you still feel the same."

He tries to release me from his grasp, but I only wrap my arms around him more tightly for his efforts. This is the Jasper I love, after all—the Jasper who will gladly suffer the pain he's just been through—that he's still going through—so long as it means a human gets to keep his life.

After a few minutes, I feel his arms wrap around me again. Thankfully, after a few minutes more, Restraint turns into Comfort, and Remorse fades into Gratitude.

After the effects of the ambulance passing have melted away, we lie back on the snow together and look up at the clouded sky. We're lying in complete silence, so it surprises me when Jasper suddenly looks over at me and asks me what I'm doing. I hadn't even been aware that I was moving, but when I think about it, I realize that I'm moving my arms and legs outward and inward in the snow. I laugh as I recognize the habit I've picked up from spending so many afternoons watching parents play with their children in snowstorms.

"Don't you know?" I ask him, a sly grin on my face.

He shakes his head and I laugh at him.

"Do the same," I instruct. He rolls his eyes, but is apparently too amused with me to argue. When I feel that we're both ready, I stand up, being sure to keep my feet where the imprint of my body still lies in the snow, and jump away from where he's lying. Jasper does the same, and when he lands next to me, I point to the two indentations in the snow. He raises his eyebrow.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Snow angels!" I laugh.

I don't exactly know why, but suddenly there is a glittering in his eyes that I've never seen there before. It reminds me of the way he looks when he sees something breathtaking, only this is a thousand times more intense. This confuses me—they're only snow angels after all. My confusion doesn't last long. In one movement, he lifts me off my feet, pulls me to his chest, and spins us both around as gracefully as if we were dancing. Though I'm not sure exactly what it is about this moment that has made him so happy, I do know that _Joy_ is an embrace I'm not likely to ever forget.

Over his shoulder, I see that the sun is beginning to rise, so I know that it's time I take him to the house I've bought for us to share. This past week, whenever the diner was closed, I spent all my available time fixing it, trying to make it perfect for the two of us. It wasn't really that hard, considering we won't be using it for much other than privacy, but I did make sure to build and stock plenty of bookshelves for him, in case he needs something other than me to keep him occupied. I also ensured that the house itself was far enough away from the city that the temptation for him won't be unbearable. Of course, I also made sure that the closets were stocked with clothes for the both of us, having foreseen that he would bring nothing to Philadelphia save for the clothes he had on his back.

We walk together, no faster than humans do, towards our little home. He laughs at me as I bounce next to him, hardly able to contain my excitement when I think of the two of us sharing it together. When we finally reach the door and I lead him inside, I suddenly feel nervous that he might not like it. Of course, he can feel the shift in my emotions as well as if I had come right out and told him what I felt, and so he reaches down, pulls my chin up so I'm looking into his eyes, and tells me that he loves it. The excitement is too much, and so I spring up and wrap my arms around his neck, almost knocking him off his feet with the force of my attack. _Excitement_. This is an embrace I could get used to.

When he finally calms me down enough to disentangle me from his shoulders, he insists that I show him around the house. He frowns when I show him the kitchen that I've kept in tact "in case we have any human company," but brightens considerably when I assure him that such company can wait until he's absolutely comfortable with it. He's genuinely grateful when I show him his study and all the books I've chosen for him based on things I've seen him read in the past. And when I show him the bedroom…

… the air around us seems suddenly full with a need that has been steadily growing since the moment we met. Greedily, we drink each other in as though we've been a long time parched. Each touch, each caress is an electrifying current that jolts to life the long-dormant desires that lie within us; each kiss and each movement of our conjoined bodies brings these desires closer to fulfillment. And in the moment when every inch of our bodies shudders with the pleasure of consummation, I know that _Passion_ is the best embrace there is.

But even as I think it, I know that it's not entirely accurate. For, like everything the two of us have accomplished tonight, Passion would not be possible without a deeper embrace which reaches far beyond the limitations of the senses. This embrace held us firmly in its grasp long before we even met, and it holds us now, as together we face the future.

For _Love,_ Love is an embrace of the souls.


	16. Jasper: June 24th, 1950

**A/N: A longish one, and quite dialogue heavy. There's also a bit of a time jump--two years in fact. Just a heads up so it's not too confusing. My brain is raw from writing so much heavy stuff over the past few days, so the next two chapters might be a little fluffier. Or not. I'm not really sure. But just to prepare y'all for what's up, the next two chapters will be more of Alice and Jasper alone together, and the two chapters after that (the last two!) will be the beginning of their time with the Cullens. **

**In other news, I find that after I write a Jasper chapter, I keep wanting to add apostrophes to the endings of all my words. I even start to _speak_ in a freaking Southern accent when I get through with him. Haha. Oh Jasper...**

**Thanks to all my reviewers--both for this story and for my one-shot. The happiness... it knows no bounds.**

**As always, Stephenie Meyer owns it all, including, apparently, my life, since all I do these days is sit around and obsess about Twilight.

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Jasper**

"Tell me again," I whisper into her neck. She giggles.

"Jasper, I've told you a hundred times. What more do you want to know?"

I sigh. For her, the future has always been so certain. For years, she knew not only that she would find me, but that she would find her family—that she would fit in somewhere, that she would be wanted and loved. How then, can I explain to her how black that same future looked to me? How can she possibly know how much it means to me to be able to picture a future now?

As if sensing my thoughts, she rights herself on the bed and faces me with an expression that is clearly meant to look official. Perhaps it would, if it weren't so darn cute.

"All right," she says, "I'll tell you again. But it has to be a trade—for every answer I give you, you give me one in return."

I consider this for a moment. I don't have to be an empath to sense that she's tryin' to be clever. She wants to get somethin' out of me, though I can't for the life of me imagine what it might be. I tell her everythin'—we have no secrets between us. Indeed, for us secrets are virtually impossible. So what is it that she wants to know? I decide it doesn't matter.

"Excellent," she says, already knowin' that I'll agree. I roll my eyes at her as she settles back into the bed beside me.

"Okay," she asks once she's comfortable. "What do you want to know?"

"Tell me about my brothers and sister," I say, closin' my eyes to better conjure up the mental images that always accompany her words in my mind.

Alice laughs.

"Your sister, Rosalie, is probably the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

I open my eyes for long enough to shoot Alice a very doubtful look out of the corner of my eye. How, with all the time she spends in front of the mirror, can she possibly look at anyone else and think they're more beautiful than the woman lookin' back at her in her own reflection?

The expression on my face only causes Alice to laugh again before she continues.

"Well, she's absolutely gorgeous at the very least. And she knows it too. I think… I think perhaps she didn't have such a happy human life, though I don't know all the details. I think that some of the bitterness she feels over that has remained with her over the years. But she loves her family dearly, and, like her husband, she is very protective of them. She will be the hardest to convince when we arrive, but she'll come around in the end—especially if you're able to calm her down long enough for us to explain ourselves."

As if to prove myself, I project a deep calm out into the room..

"Mmmmm," she murmurs into my shoulder, as every muscle in her body relaxes, "exactly… Now quit it or I won't be able to tell you about the rest of them."

I laugh and release the calm so she can continue.

"You'll have two brothers. The big one, his name is Emmett. He's strong… very strong. But he's also got… well… an _interesting_ sense of humor."

I smirk at that word. Alice only uses "interesting" when she means "stupid." _"That's an interesting coat you have on, Jasper" _or _"that's an interesting idea you have about betting our savings that the Phillies will win the World Series this year."_ I take it from her use of the adjective here that Emmett enjoys teasin' people and playin' pranks, and that Alice will more than once be the object of his _interesting _sense of humor. I'd be more concerned if I didn't already know she can hold her own—bein' able to see the future makes revenge pretty easy after all.

"He's got a good heart though," she continues, "they all do. He's very protective of his family—especially Rosalie. Whenever any trouble comes around, Emmett's always the first one to step up and offer to fight. He's like you, in that, I suppose," she says, nudgin' me in the side, "always trying to defend the people you love, even if it does make you both overprotective fools."

I grin again, 'cause I know exactly what she's referrin' to. About a year ago, the two of us were huntin' when we encountered a nomad. He saw Alice first and started to approach her, but before he could get within thirty feet I had jumped in between them, and crouched low to the ground, prepared to attack. Somethin' about my stance, or my growl, or the way my battle scars glittered in the sun made him rethink his decision to approach us, and so, without a word, he turned and ran away. I was relieved. Alice was furious.

"_Jasper," _she'd hissed at me when he'd gone, _"He only wanted to ask us if we knew how to get to Allentown_."

Well… how was I supposed to know?

"And Edward," Alice continues, callin' me back into the present, "Edward's very different. He doesn't speak much, but when he does, it's always very poignant. His family doesn't usually speak directly to him, at least not out loud. But I know he can hear their thoughts, and because of that, he's usually the peacemaker. In many ways, he's like the glue that holds them together—that keeps them honest. He can tell when someone's lying, or when someone's being sincere. There are no secrets for the Cullens," she adds, squeezin' my hand gently, "they only converse in truth."

This is one aspect of my new life that I'm not particularly lookin' forward to. There are many parts of my past that I'm not at all proud of. That Alice knows them is burden enough, but to have to share all these things with other people—with _good_ people—it will be difficult… shameful to have to do.

"But," Alice continues, "because Edward is alone so much, he has also learned a great deal; he's very smart. He's an excellent musician, and he reads, probably more even than you do. You'll finally have someone to discuss all your interesting ideas with, Jasper!"

Ha… _interesting_ ideas.

Suddenly I feel Alice's emotions shift. While she was tellin' me about the future, she was all amusement, with only a slight hint of boredom. After all, this _is _probably the hundredth time I've asked her to explain all this to me. But now, now she's nervous, and really, I can't imagine why.

"Have I answered your question?" she asks, her voice suddenly quiet. I nod.

"Okay… then I want to know about your siblings."

My siblings? Hasn't she just answered that question for me?

"I mean from _before_," she qualifies, her voice barely a whisper.

_Oh._

In the two years that we've been together, Alice has never asked me about my human life. In fact, she's never asked me anythin' about my past at all. I always assumed it was because she already knew everythin'. In her visions, she had seen me talk about my time in the South with Peter and Charlotte. She knew about the newborns, and she knew about Maria. But I suppose, in all the time before she knew me, I never did talk about my human family. I haven't thought about them in so long now. I find it difficult to come up with anythin' to say.

I close my eyes again, hopin' that somewhere in the blackness behind my eyelids there still exist memories of a time when I wasn't a vampire. Everythin' I see there is blurry, but certain shapes, images stand out from all the rest.

"I had a sister… sisters, I think. I believe there were two of them—one older and one younger. I don't remember their names. The older one I hardly remember at all. She must have been much older than I, 'cause I don't remember her bein' 'round too much. She mighta been married; I think I can remember her weddin'. I remember a church, and flowers, and I remember afterwards, we all stood 'round and posed to get our tintype made. I was so mad when it came out, 'cause it wasn't in color.

The younger one, I remember slightly better. She was probably 'bout a year or two younger than I, and she followed me 'round like she was a lost puppy. I adored her. She had a gap in her front teeth that showed when she smiled. She hated it, and when she realized it wasn't goin' away she threatened to never smile again. But for some reason, I could always make her laugh. And when she laughed, even with that silly gap in her teeth, she was beautiful. Her face would light up, her cheeks would get all flushed and pink, and her eyes would sparkle just as brightly as our skin sparkles in the sun. She had big, blue eyes… like sapphires… We all did."

I pause and bring my hand up to touch my eyes. In all my years as a vampire, I never once tried to picture myself as a human. I'd never wanted to—it would be like a lion tryin' to picture himself as a common housecat. But now, as I filter through the bits and pieces of my memories, I find that the leap is not so unnatural after all. 

_My eyes were blue._

"I don't think I can remember anymore," I sigh.

In my concentration, I'd forgotten that Alice was leanin' over me, so it surprises me a little when I feel her lips brush both of my eyelids.

"Your eyes are beautiful," she says as she lowers herself back down into the crook of my arm.

We lie in silence for a few moments before she asks me if there's anythin' else I want to know.

"Tell me about the others," I say, without hesitation. "What were their names? Carlisle? … er… Emily?"

"_Esme_," she corrects, tryin' to muffle her laughter against my chest. "Esme's like a mother. She's very loving, and has a way of always bringing out the best in people. I wonder if that's why I saw her first—on that night when I was looking for a way out. It was like she was showing me the best of myself, even then. You'll love her Jasper, you really will."

This I don't doubt. If Esme really is able to see what's best in people, then I hope that she, like Alice, will be able to see what good there is in me.

"And Carlisle… Carlisle is unlike all the rest. He's very old, and with his age comes a patience I can only hope to be able to match someday. He's the most compassionate person I have ever seen, and though of course he loves his family dearly, he loves everyone he meets with almost equal sincerity. He loves _life_, and in all his years he hasn't found a creature yet whom he deems to be undeserving of his compassion."

I can feel the reverence in her words as she speaks about him. Already she admires him as a daughter admires her father. I too, admire him, though, if I'm bein' completely honest with myself, I know that I'm slightly jealous of him as well. This Carlisle was able to create for himself everythin' I ever wanted without ever havin' to wait for an Alice to show up and explain it all to him. He found a way of life that suited his conscience rather than tryin' to make his conscience fit his way of life, as I had. And for that, I will always envy him.

I feel Alice growin' nervous again now that she's told me about my whole family, and so I already know what question she'll ask next. Sometimes bein' an empath is just as good as bein' able to tell the future.

"Both of my parents were very hard workers," I say, answerin' her unspoken thoughts. "They had to be, given our way of life. We weren't rich, but we owned a small plantation that had to be managed with extreme care. My father was out in the fields most of the time, and my mother spent her days mindin' the house. I don't remember bein' all that close with my mother—I think she was more attached to my sister than to me. But my daddy… my daddy thought the world of me. When I was old enough, he started teachin' me 'bout how to be a farmer. He taught me how to plow, how to plant seeds, how to manage the animals; he taught me everythin' he knew. Truth is, I didn't really like it all that much, but I sure loved my daddy, and to me, spendin' time with him was just 'bout the greatest thing there was.

I only left them 'cause the War came. I didn't want to hurt them, but I didn't want to be the coward who ran and hid while other, _better_ men were dyin' for their country. I knew it would hurt my parents when they woke up in the mornin' and saw that I'd gone, but I also knew that, deep down, they'd be proud of me doin' what they thought was the right thing. And then, I always assumed I'd be back one day—that the War'd last only a few months and that I'm come home, a decorated veteran… a hero."

I scoff at the last word. "Hero." What no one tells you when you go to war—war of any kind—is that there's no such thing as a "Hero." When people die, everyone loses. There's no glory in that.

"Have you ever gone back?" Alice asks. "To your home, I mean. Did you ever try to go back?"

"There'd be nothin' to go back to. I was born in 1843, all my family, everyone I ever knew is long dead by now," I answer, and to my surprise, my voice is heavy with sadness. I haven't thought about them in so long. How is it that now, after all these years, I'm finally beginnin' to realize how much I miss them?

I feel Alice move her hand to my chest where she begins to lightly trace the pattern of my scars with her fingertips. This is one of the many things that I love about her—that she can touch the ravaged texture of my skin without flinchin', without automatically recoilin' in disgust or fear. She's been able to do so since the first day I met her, when she made me stand absolutely still while she pressed her perfect lips to every single one of them. When she first started, I felt almost unbearably insecure and ashamed. But by the time she reached the crescent over my left eye, I felt beautiful. She loved every inch of me, and bathed in the great light of her love, my skin was just as white and perfect as hers.

So I'm startled when I begin to feel an insatiable anger risin' up within her. It's an emotion I've never felt from her before—annoyance, irritation, exasperation… all of these I've felt from Alice. But anger? Rage? Never. It terrifies me.

"I want to kill her, Jasper," Alice whispers after a moment, her voice tremblin' with fury. "For all that she's done to you, for all that she took from you… I want her dead."

Though we've never spoken of her before, it takes me less than a second to figure out who she means. It takes me only a second more to recognize the absolute conviction in Alice's voice. For a minute, I have wild and terrible flashes of Alice huntin' down Maria, of the two of them fightin'… the thoughts are too much.

"Alice," I say as I pull us both up into a sittin' position and take her head between my hands, "you must promise me that you'll never do that. You must promise me that you will never seek her out, and that if you ever happen to cross her path, you will run away without lookin' back. You must promise me that you will never go anywhere near her. Promise me, Alice. Promise me now."

"You think I'd lose?" Alice questions, her angry black eyes starin' directly into mine.

"No," I disagree. I've seen what she can do. I know her gift makes her an impossibly difficult target. She beat me, all those years ago when she wrestled me to the ground, even though I was fightin' with all my strength to get past her. And Maria, Maria never really had to fight—most of that was left up to me. I knew who would win if it came to a match between the two of them, but that's just the problem.

"You'd win, Alice. You'd kill her. But in doin' so, you'd lose. You, who have never killed a person in your life, you have no idea the guilt that weighs upon those of us that have. Even if the life that you take is evil—even if that person deserves to die—part of you dies along with them. And I refuse to have that happen to you. As long as I'm with you, no part of you will ever die."

She relaxes minutely beneath my hands, and closes her eyes.

"How can you not want her dead when she took so much from you?" she whispers. "Your sisters, your family, your _humanity_—all gone because of her."

I smile as I kiss Alice on the forehead and hug her close to me.

"Yes," I admit, "but you give it all back to me. All of it. And more. Everythin' I have, everythin' I _will_ have, I have because of you. And what's more, what's greater than all the rest, is that somehow… somehow I get to keep you as well."

I feel Alice's anger begin to ebb as she finally wraps her arms around my shoulders. When I feel that her anger has all but disappeared, I push her back gently and look into her golden eyes.

"Promise me, Alice," I urge her softly.

She drops her head in a nod.

"I promise."

I lift her chin and kiss her softly before I lay us both back on the mattress.

"I think it's my turn now, right?" I ask once we're settled.

She rolls her eyes.

"We're not done with this game yet?"

"No," I say, mock horror in my voice, "I haven't even gotten to ask you about the most important thing of all."

She smiles when she sees in her mind what my next question will be. I ask it anyway.

"_Tell me about us." _

I smile along with her as she launches into the details of our future together. This time though, I don't need to close my eyes. Everythin' I'll ever need, everythin' I'll ever want—I'm already holdin' it in my arms.


	17. Alice: November 12th, 1950

**A/N: Again, sorry for the late update. I started getting pretty sick yesterday, and today… not so much better. But I have no classes and no work today, so I'm going to try and knock out two chapters for you. I wrote and rewrote this chapter several times, but it still doesn't feel quite right to me. But I'm tired of rewriting it again and again, so I decided just to post it as is. This is kind of a "move-the-plot-along" chapter, and the next chapter will be fluffy mcflufferson if Jasper has anything to say about it (which, of course, he does). So be prepared for that. I can't believe I have only one Alice chapter left after this! My, how time flies.**

**Oh, and I forgot to tell you guys about my fun fact from last chapter: In 1950, the Phillies did play the Yankees in the World Series. They lost, big time. It's a shame poor Jasper won't be able to see them win until 1980... and then, of course, in 2008!  
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**Thank you to all my reviewers, as always. I hope I've been able to send a PM to each of you individually, but if I've somehow missed you, I truly am sorry. **

**Stephenie Meyer owns everything.

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**Alice**

"Oh no," I sigh as I see Jasper sitting at his desk, his head buried in his arms. "Jasper, what happened?"

"I smelled her the moment I came out of the bookstore," Jasper groans, his voice muffled by his arms. "Her mother was pullin' her up off the ground where she'd fallen. There was just a little bit of blood… but it was enough. It was like I could feel my eyes turnin' black in my skull, like the ache in my throat had spread so that it engulfed my entire body in flames. It was torture, Alice, of the worst kind. I'm so sorry… I couldn't help it…"

He stops and grips his hair, as if he could rip the memory out of his head with his hands.

Though it pains me to do so, I stand several feet away from him, not making any attempt to go nearer. I know that if I get close enough to him, he'll feel my anger, and he'll misinterpret it, which will only make things worse. He'll think I'm angry with him when really, I couldn't possibly be more furious at myself.

_How could I not see this coming?_

Jasper has been going out on his own for a few months now. Ever since June when I asked him about his human family, he's been working so much harder at trying to fit in. I think he realized from that conversation how eager I am to join a family of my own, and though I try to tell him otherwise, he thinks he's holding me back from finding them. No matter how many times I reiterate, truthfully, that this is not the case—that even if we never find the Cullens his love will always be enough for me—he still insists on trying harder to adapt, try harder to fit in amongst humans. So he's been hunting more frequently and spending more and more time in the city.

Being around humans is still difficult for him. That night that I held him close to me, restraining him from attacking that ambulance, he inadvertently showed me what it's like for him to have to resist. It's far more difficult for him than it ever was for me. I can't be sure if this is because he's tasted human blood before, or if it's simply because something about his genetic makeup makes human blood far more tempting for him than it is for me. But clearly, he has a harder time resisting than I, or even the rest of the Cullens seem to have. However, despite the odds, despite the enormous loss he stands to suffer if he gives into temptation, he fights to gain control of himself. It's a constant battle—one that he wages every day, one that he struggles through every second he has to be around humans—a battle that he loses, even as he wins, since the pain he suffers through is so intense.

And all of this, all of this he does for me.

_So why couldn't I do this one simple thing for him?_

When he goes out alone, he trusts me to look out for him. He trusts me to use my visions to ensure that he won't be tempted any further than he has to be. I specifically remember him asking me at the door today, just before he left, if I could see anything bad happening. Like always, I'd just laughed at him and told him he'd be fine. He'd been doing so well lately that I didn't keep a close eye on him while he was away, so I hadn't even known anything was wrong until he burst through our door so hard that he knocked it off its hinges. And now, now that I feel his pain and regret as if they were my own…

_My god, Alice, how could you have been so careless?_

"You're angry," he says, his voice flat. I guess I hadn't been so careful with my emotions after all.

I walk over to where he is seated and kneel at his feet, resting my head in his lap.

"Yes," I say, my voice repentant, "but not at you. I'm so sorry, Jasper, I wasn't looking… I didn't see. This is all my fault."

To my surprise, he laughs, though his voice is scornful.

"You shouldn't have to baby sit me," he sneers.

"That's not it," I insist, "But you trust me to watch out for you, to warn you of any potential danger. You trust me to be able to see things like this, to stop them before they happen. And I wasn't even _watching_. That's unforgivable."

And it is. Completely and totally unforgivable. Someone just _died_ because of my negligence. And Jasper… He's gone for so long without killing a human, I have no idea what the remorse will do to him now. It's been so long since I've seen him in so much pain—since that first night when I stopped him from going after the ambulance. I thought that he'd never have to feel that again, and now, he here he sits, feeling it all again and more. Because of me.

I bury my head deeper into his lap and close my eyes tightly, trying to block out my shame. After a few moments, I feel his fingers running soothingly through my hair and the air around us growing calmer. Then I feel him gather me in his arms and hold me to his chest.

"Alice, please don't be angry at yourself. This was my mistake," he whispers. "It was weak, and it was stupid, and it was wrong. In one moment of weakness I've undone everything you've worked for, everything you've built for us… it's disgraceful. But the burden is mine, and I swear I'll try harder next time. I swear I won't mess this up for us again."

I wonder for a moment how he can be so concerned about _my _feelings when at least one person—probably more since there were bound to be witnesses—is dead because of what I've done. But then I realize that I'm guilty of the same thing—I care more about what this will do to him than what it's done to everyone else involved. That too, is shameful, but in this moment, I find I don't really care.

I pull back to look into his deep, golden eyes.

"If you won't allow me a share in the blame," I tell him, knowing full well that no matter what he says, I will always blame myself, "perhaps you'll at least allow me to help you clean up the mess."

He sighs and nods, for which I hug him close to me, already dreading the next question I have to ask.

"What did you do with the bodies?"

"Bodies?" he asks, sounding strangely confused.

"Well, yes. The girl, her mother—there must have been witnesses. I assume there's more than one."

The imaginary count building up in my mind makes me shudder involuntarily. I can only hope that he doesn't notice this reaction and interpret it to mean that I am angry with him for what's happened. But apparently a misinterpretation does occur, for in the next instant, he removes me from his lap and places me on my feet in front of him. At this angle, we are almost exaclty the same height, so that I find myself looking directly into his eyes.

"You really didn't see anything. You have no idea what I've done," he says, a statement rather than a question.

"No," I admit as I close my eyes, bracing myself for whatever terrible picture he is about to paint.

But, to my surprise, I suddenly feel an immense wave of relief crashing over me. And then I feel him take my hand and bring it to his lips, kissing it sweetly.

"Alice," he whispers, his voice full of a happiness I don't quite understand, "I didn't kill anyone. I smelled her blood and I wanted to taste it, yes. But she was far enough away that I was able to fight it. I swear to you I didn't touch her, or anyone else."

He brings his free hand to my face and lightly rubs his thumb across my cheekbone.

"Darlin'," he says, "look at my eyes."

When I do, I see what my guilt and shame hid from me before—that they are golden, still rich from the hunt he went on only yesterday. Not even the slightest hint of red colors his irises. Were I not already able to discern the truth from the sincerity in his voice, looking into these beautiful, pure eyes would certainly have proved to me that he hadn't committed the crime I thought us both guilty of.

_But if not murder, then what?_

Jasper laughs at the confusion that accompanies my unspoken question.

"It was impossible—impossible for me to resist, but I did. In my haste to save her life, however, I completely forgot about my human pretenses. I ran from her—from all of them—with all the speed I have. There were many witnesses; I could feel their confusion and fear as I ran past them. I know they saw me, and I know that some of them recognized me. _That's_ what I was appologizin' for. We'll have to leave now, of course, because I've made such a mess of things. But if I had stayed, if I had hesitated for just a moment, if I had run just a little slower, the consequences would have been far worse. But I swear, Alice, I swear I never touched her."

If I could blush, I would. If I could cry, I would. If my heart could stop beating (again), it would probably do that too. But as I can do none of these things, I do the only thing I can: I fling myself back into Jasper's arms with a force that knocks us both over onto the floor. There, I cover his face and neck and arms and hands, and anything else I can get at with kisses of pure relief and joy. He laughs beneath me, and the sound of it, after all that has happened in the past hour, is quite possibly the most wonderful thing I've ever heard.

Finally, I pull myself into a sitting position on his stomach so that he is still lying on the floor. I take his hands in mine and raise them to his chest.

"Jasper," I start, embarrassed, "I'm so sorry… When you were telling me how much you wanted her… I just assumed the worst. I'm sorry. I should know better."

"It's okay," he says, as he smirks up at me, "I probably would've assumed the same thing if I were you. It's just, I'm so used to you knowin' everythin' that I do, I guess I forget to explain myself sometimes."

His expression slowly shifts from smug to worried.

"But even if I didn't do the worst thing I could've done, I still messed up Alice. We're still gonna have to leave. I'm so sorry for that. I know you like it here."

I do. Though I've only lived here for two years, I know I will always think of Philadelphia as my first home. This is where Jasper and I met, and this is where we began our lives together. I will be sad to leave this place, but even before today's events I knew that it was time for us to go. In fact, Jasper's actions today only solidify the thought I've had growing in my mind for many months now—that it's time to join our family.

"I do like it here," I answer, squeezing his hands in between my own, "but I'm ready to leave. And so are you."

Jasper raises his left eyebrow and grimaces slightly.

"I know you may not feel ready," I continue, moving one of my hands to smooth the hair from his face, "but you _are_. Don't you see? 'It was impossible for you to resist.' Those are your words, not mine. And yet you _did_ resist. You did it without my warning, without my help—you did that all on your own. And because of that, I know you're ready."

I can feel the pride growing within me as I speak, and I hope that he feels it too. He must, because in one movement, he pulls me down so I am lying against his side, my face in the crook of his neck.

"You'll help me?" he questions, pressing his lips into my hair.

"Of course," I promise, returning his kiss on his neck. "We all will, if you need us."

"I'm always gonna need you," he says, pulling me tighter against him.

"As I will always need you," I return, raising my head to kiss his jaw.

"Right," he beams as he lowers his lips to meet mine, "let's go find our family."


	18. Jasper: November 23rd, 1950

**A/N: Here's Jasper, and all I can say is... wow... fluff. I'm glad to get this out of the way though, because now we can finally get to the Cullens. Two more chapters--oh my goodness.**

**Not so many accuracy notes, though all the gifts Jasper gives Alice will be posted as links on my profile for those who are interested. And also, of course, November 23rd really was Thanksgiving Day in 1950.  
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**Thanks for the reviews! I hope my final two chapters live up to y'alls high expectations and praise!**

***Stephenie Meyer owns everything.

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**Jasper**

"Jasper, I'm really not in the mood for this."

Alice scowls at me from across the room, and I can feel the tension rollin' off of her like icy waves. I'm sure it's all meant to look and feel terribly frightin', but when she gets like this, I just can't help but laugh. 'Course, laughin' is probably the last thing one should do when standin' face to face with an angry vampire.

"That's it," she says, turnin' to leave the room, "I'm not sitting here just to watch you laugh at me. I've got work to do."

I grab her before she can make it to the door, workin' very hard to hide the smile on my face.

"Just wait, Alice. I promise you it'll be worth it. You just have to trust me and have a little patience."

Patience is probably the furthest thing from Alice's mind these days, and it's not hard to understand why. Ever since we agreed to find our family, she's been workin' non-stop tryin' to figure out where they are. She keeps seein' 'em in the same house, in the same town, but she can't quite place _where_ that town is. For two weeks we've been travelin' up and down the Eastern coast, lookin' for anythin' that even faintly resembles the snow-covered forest and vast ocean of her visions, but nothin's been right. To add to her frustrations, this isn't even the first time she's been through all of this--she was lookin' for the Cullens for years before she met me. So surely, this is all seemin' like the worst kind of déja-vu she's ever had.

Much to her chagrin, the winter weather cleared this mornin', and it was suddenly too bright for us to be outside. We'd had to get a hotel room (well, _three_ hotel rooms actually, so that I wouldn't be too tempted by humans stayin' in the rooms next to us), and she'd spent the better part of the mornin' sulkin' in the bedroom. When I'd finally dared to check on her, I found that she was drawin' the same picture over and over again—a picture of what I assumed to be the settin' of our new home. She'd kicked me out of the bedroom soon thereafter, claimin' I was "hoverin'", whatever that means. But seein' that house over and over again gave me an idea 'bout how to cheer her up.

Over the past few weeks, I've been steadily accumulatin' presents to give to her for Christmas. I'd made her promise not to cheat this year by lookin' into the future to see what I'd gotten her, and, though she hates surprises, she'd agreed. I even decided on getting' her an ugly skirt that I knew she'd hate just to test her, but I heard no word of protest, so I took that to mean she was stickin' to her promise.

In the end, I'd decided on four gifts, to which I added a fifth one just this mornin'. I figured, since we're stuck inside all day, I might as well give take this opportunity to give her the presents—especially 'cause I know they're bound to make her happy. Though now, lookin' at her glare at me like I just kicked a puppy or somethin', I think perhaps I should've kept my mouth shut.

"All right, Jasper, I'm listening. What is it that just couldn't wait?" she asks, tappin' her foot against the floor impatiently.

I sigh as I take her by the hand and lead her to an armchair I've placed in the middle of the room.

"First of all, you have to promise that you won't look into the future for the next hour or so. I want everythin' to be a surprise," I tell her, very seriously. She rolls her eyes.

"Yes, okay, I promise. Present only. No future."

"All right," I say, smilin' at her slyly. "Do you know what today is?"

"It's November twenty-third," she says with absolutely no hint of amusement in her voice.

"Yes, but do you know what _today _is?" I urge her, ignorin' her frustration.

"It's Thanksgiving," she says sternly.

"Exactly," I say, startin' to get excited. "I have Thanksgivin' presents for you!"

"Isn't that the kind of thing that's traditionally done on Christmas?" she asks, slightly more amused now.

"Yes, but…" How do I explain without givin' away my surprise? "Do you remember the conversation we had 'bout all the things Maria took from me?"

I feel her cringe internally at the name. I know how much Alice hates her, and I wouldn't have brought it up, 'cept that conversation has special relevance to my choice in gifts.

"Of course I remember," she says through gritted teeth.

"Okay, well, as I told you then, everythin' she took from me, you gave back to me. I don't think I tell you enough how grateful I am to you for that. So today, on Thanksgivin', I thought it would be especially appropriate to show you what I mean, and to thank you for everythin' you've done."

"Jasper," she says, her voice suddenly soft with emotion, "you don't need to—"

"Shhhh," I stop her, placin' a finger over her mouth, "I _want_ to do this. Let me have my fun."

Alice nods her head for which I give her a quick kiss on the forehead.

"Thank you," I say, steppin' towards the couch behind which I've hidden all her presents.

"All right. Do you remember the first time we met, in the diner, when you laughed at me 'cause I had no idea who you were, or what you wanted with me?"

Clearly she does, for as soon as I trigger the memory in her head, she starts laughin' again, just like she did on that night.

"Yes," I say, smilin' along with her, "exactly like that. That was somethin' Maria took from me. She took laughter, she took gladness, she took all my happiness. But the moment I heard you laughin', I couldn't help but smile. That was the first thing you gave back to me, though you probably didn't even realize it."

From behind the couch I pull out her first gift: a small silver bell.

"Every time I hear you laugh, it's like a million of these," I say, ringin' the bell in my hand, "only far more beautiful. And, just like the first time, every time I hear you laugh it makes me smile. You brought happiness back into my life, Alice, and for that I will always be in your debt."

I place the bell in her hands. I can see her openin' her mouth to thank me, but again, I place my finger over her lips. Her smile—that's all the thanks I'll ever need.

For the next gift, I walk over to the light switch and flip it off, so that we're sittin' in total darkness.

"When we're changed," I continue, as I resume my seat next to the couch, "one of the first things we lose is our warmth. It's a little ironic, actually, how though there's fire ragin' in our veins, our bodies grow almost instantly cold to the touch."

I reach behind me again and pull out a star-shaped lantern and a pack of matches.

"Again, I don't think you realize the impact you had on me that first night we met. Before that night, everythin' I touched was as cold and lifeless as I. But when I took your hand, it was like a fire roared to life within me. And still, every time we touch, I feel that same fire, just as strong and as true as it was on that first night. And though I can no longer generate warmth on my own, I find I'm never cold when I'm near you."

I light the candle within the lantern, and suddenly the whole room glows with the warm light of the flame. As I place the lantern on the floor beside her, I take her hand in my own and press it to my lips. She trembles when my lips touch her skin, and as if in response to her minute movements, the light from the candle dances wildly, throwin' light in every corner of the room.

After a few seconds, I reluctantly release her fingers and move back to the couch, speakin' as I walk.

"When I first caught a reflection of myself upon wakin' to this life, I remember thinkin' that I was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Of course, it wasn't long before Maria took that from me as well." I touch the scars on my face and smile, a little ruefully.

"Jasper, don't," Alice cuts in, and before I'm able to stop her, she gets up from her chair and wraps her arms around my waist. I know that she hates it when I talk about my scars, and the comfort that her small arms provide feels so good that I let her stay there for a moment, before I gently pick her up and place her back in the chair.

"Let me finish," I say, kissin' the top of her head. "I spent most of my life thinkin' that I was the most hideous creature on earth, both inside and out. To me, my scars were just a physical manifestation of my inner darkness. But throughout the years you've shown me a part of myself that I never knew—you've shown me the kindness and compassion and love that I thought I'd lost. Because of you, I've become a better person. Maybe I'm not beautiful yet, but at least now I have hope that one day, I will be."

I turn towards the couch and pick up her next gift, though I hold it behind my back for a moment while I continue.

"But I wonder if I haven't been neglectful in doin' the same thing for you. I've often heard you describe other women as beautiful or as gorgeous, but I've never heard you apply the same adjectives to yourself. In fact, since I've known you, I've only ever heard you regret things about yourself—your hair, your height, your shape… I've never once heard you compliment yourself for anythin'. And though I know I've told you how wonderful you are, I wonder if you know how you truly look to me."

I pull out the small, bronze mirror I have hidden behind my back, and angle it towards her so that she can see her reflection.

"Look at the woman you see there. Look at the way her eyes light up when she smiles. Look at the way her red lips stand out against her ivory skin. See how her delicate hands shine like porcelain in the lamplight. And what's more—think of all the things that she has accomplished in her life. Remember the courage it took for her to survive on her own all those years, and the fortitude it required for her to decide to give up her own life to spare the lives of others. Consider the love she gives to a family that she hasn't even met yet. And consider, finally, the love that she gives to even those that are least deservin' of it—consider the love she gives to me. Can you tell me now that this woman isn't beautiful?"

Alice takes the mirror in her hands and studies her reflection for a moment before lookin' up into my eyes.

"If I'm beautiful," she says, her voice barely a whisper, "it's only because you make me so."

I smile at her and take her in my arms again.

"I think that's my line," I say, lettin' my lips press against her hair.

"It's mine too," she insists, huggin' me closer. I know it's useless to argue with her, but I can only hope that I've been able to show her exactly how perfect she is—how perfect she _was_, long before she ever met me.

"There's more," I tell her, gently untwinin' her arms from around my waist. I take one of her hands in my own and bring it to rest on my chest.

"Do you feel that?" I ask her. We sit in silence for a few seconds before she looks at me, confused, and shakes her head.

"No," she admits.

I laugh.

"Of course not. Because that's another thing Maria took from me—she took my life. For the longest time, I thought she'd taken my heart as well. That I'd never be able to feel anythin' but hate and anger and pain—that I'd never be able to feel love."

I reach in my pocket and pull out a silver necklace.

"But I was wrong about that," I say as I fasten the necklace around Alice's neck. "Because that was somethin' she could never take from me. Because you see," I say as I hold the double-hearted pendant up to her eyes, "my heart was always here, with you. Our hearts have always been entwined, so that even though she may have wanted to, she could never take it from me. You were keepin' it safe for me all along."

Alice takes the pendant between her fingers and presses it lightly against her lips. I feel her move to try'n hug me again, but I back away before she can get her arms around me. She looks a little hurt that I've apparently rejected her embrace, but there's only one more gift to give, and I know that this will mean the most to her. It means the most to me as well, so I don't want to keep us waitin' any longer.

"I don't remember much of bein' human," I start, "but I do remember how special nighttime was for me and my family. At night, when all the work was done, daddy'd take me and my sister to our room and tell us fantastic stories 'bout giant men, and beanstalks, and magic lamps, and all sorts of other things. When I got too old for him to tell those stories anymore, I remember lyin' in my bed and tryin' to think up stories on my own. And sometimes, as I slept, I'd get to live out those fantasies in my dreams.

When Maria took my life, she also took my dreams. For the longest time, I lived in a world of inescapable darkness—one long, black nightmare from which I thought that I would never wake. But then, the day you found me, I began to hope again, to dream that life could be different, could be better. You gave me hope when hope was all but impossible, and with that hope you promised me yourself, which is a far greater gift than anythin' I could ever give you.

All my dreams have been realized, Alice, and that's only because of you. You've given me a future that I never thought I could have, and today, I think I've finally found a way that I can give you the future you so deserve."

I pull my remainin' gift from behind the couch and hand it to her. She looks at the folded sheet of paper I've given her, and then back up at me, her eyes full of confusion.

"_Open it,_" I urge.

She gasps as she unfolds the paper and sees what's sketched there.

"What is this?" she asks, her voice a whisper.

"Don't you know?" I say, tryin' to sound surprised, "you've been drawin' it since this mornin'."

"Yes but," she says, her voice startin' to shake with emotion, "I didn't draw this."

"No," I say, smilin' as realization dawns on her, "_I _did. I drew it five years ago, when I traveled through there with Peter and Charlotte. I kept it with me all this time because it was the first truly beautiful thing I'd seen in my whole life, and I didn't want to forget it. I didn't know this was what you were lookin' for 'till I saw your drawings."

Alice looks at the picture in her hands, and if I didn't know better, I'd think she were about to cry.

"You know where this is?" she asks quietly.

"I know where it is."

And then she's in my arms again, sobbin' tearless cries of joy into my neck. Even her sobs sound like a million tiny bells.

As I hold her close to me, I know that what I've given her tonight doesn't even scratch the surface of the great debt I still owe to her. That's a debt that I will gladly spend the rest of eternity tryin' to pay off. But in this moment, I feel a profound joy that I've finally been able to give her somethin' that she deserves, that I've finally, if only for a moment, made her just as happy as she's made me.

I catch sight of our reflection in the mirror on the floor. For the first time in my life, I find that I can't see my scars.


	19. Alice: December 20th, 1950

**A/N: Again, sorry for the tardiness, but as you can see, this chapter is a little longer than the others. I know this is a chapter a lot of you have been waiting for since the beginning, so I hope that the first meeting with the Cullens has been handled appropriately. The story, as Jasper and Edward present it in Eclipse**,** is rather frustratingly confusing (what do you _mean_ they just showed up and took Edward's room!?), so I tried to fill in the holes as best I could. I should warn the Jasper fans that he plays less of a role in this chapter than he has in others, but we get more Edward, which should at least make some of you happy!  
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**If this chapter doesn't do it for you, I truly am sorry. But please, stick around for the final chapter (which will hopefully be posted sometime tomorrow) because Jasper has one more crucial detail to add to the story.**

**As always, thank you for your reviews. And, as always, Stephenie Meyer owns it all.

* * *

Alice**

The snow-capped mountains, the great, green trees, and all the clouds and colors of the sky reflect in the still, clear water as if it were an ocean of glass. As one sun sets in the sky, another rises out of the water to meet it, and when the Midas suns converge on the horizon, a great flash of light stretches out across the earth, turning everything it touches to gold. Rising and falling, ending and beginning… all existence, for a moment, in abeyance.

This was the sketch that Jasper had presented me with all those weeks ago—this had been the first truly beautiful thing he'd ever seen. And I had seen it as well—whenever I tried to picture myself finding our family, this had been one of the visions, though I'd never fully understood what or where it was. But now, standing here, watching Jasper watch the sky, I understand that this was a moment created just for us, a moment that was scripted and decided upon before either of us ever came into being. No matter what else happened to us in our lives, we were always going to end up here.

When time starts again, the suns have disappeared behind the great mountains, and the sky is beginning to fill with stars. The moon, nearly full, is shining down on us so brightly that I can see Jasper's skin faintly sparkling in its light. He notices my eyes on him, and pulls me closer against his side.

"You missed it," he admonishes quietly, his jaw jutting out to indicate the horizon.

"I didn't," I insist, as I lean into his embrace. And I hadn't; I'd watched it happen in the sky minutes before I watched it play out on Jasper's face. Already I know which one had been the better view.

I know that he's about to tell me he's ready to go, so I drop my arm from his waist and take his hand in mine. It used to make him uncomfortable when I would do this—finish his sentences, answer his unspoken questions, react to some action that he had yet to take—but he's gotten used to these silent conversations by now, and there is no hesitation in him as he grips my hand and leads me back into the woods behind us. I feel an invisible cloak of love and devotion surround me as we walk together, so I project these same feelings outward from myself, knowing that he will attract them like a magnet, and understand, without my saying, how much I care for him. I too, have grown proficient in silent conversation.

Suddenly Jasper stops, turns so he's facing me, and takes both my hands in his. He smiles down at me, and then kisses me on the top of my head.

"We're here," he whispers, his cool breath washing across my face.

"Where?" I ask, taking a step back from him to squint into the darkness that surrounds us. For a moment, I think he's joking—that this, like insisting that we watch the sunset, is another diversionary tactic employed to give him a chance to calm his nerves. The thought annoys me, because really, how many times do I have to tell him everything will be fine before he believes me?

But then I see it—first as a faint glow, and then, when my eyes adjust, as a bright light shining out through the darkness—a house, a beautiful white wooden house, three stories high, nestled amongst the trees about a hundred yards ahead of us.

And then I'm the one leading Jasper—pulling him towards the light with a strength and urgency I hardly knew myself capable of. I can feel him growing more nervous with every step we take, but I've reached the point in my excitement where I can no longer find the patience to reassure him. Given the lies and deceit that permeated his past, I suppose I can't blame him for his persistent caution. But I, too, have had a troubled past, and I hope that he will forgive me my eagerness to begin anew. So I pull him forward until we reach the doorway of the enormous house, where I pause, briefly, to savor this moment—a moment that has been more than thirty years in the making.

_We are home_.

I knock on the door, and in the second it takes for someone to answer, Jasper assumes a protective stance in front of me, shielding me with his body. I know he can't help it—it's instinctual for him to want to protect me—but the embarrassment I feel at having to hide behind him when someone answers the door is so great that I nudge him in the side as hard as I can with my elbow to get him to stand down. He takes the hint and reluctantly moves aside, and when he does, I find myself face to face with the closest thing to a mother I can ever remember having. It takes all of my restraint (and perhaps a healthy dose of Jasper-induced calm) not to throw myself immediately into her arms.

Instead, I simply offer her my hand.

"Hello Esme," I say, my voice trembling with excitement.

Either her natural politeness or her inherent kindness, I'm not sure which, prompts her to take my hand without asking any questions. But no sooner do our hands meet than Esme catches sight of Jasper and shrinks away from us both.

"Um… Carlisle?" she calls, though it is hardly necessary since Carlisle has already joined her in the doorway. He examines us warily at first, but when he looks into both of our eyes, a hint of a smile begins playing at the corner of his mouth.

I'm about to extend my hand to him as well when I see Rosalie appear at the base of the stairs in the room behind them. She tenses immediately when she sees Jasper, and from deep within her, a low growl starts to build. Though I already think of her as a sister, when I feel Jasper's shame flare up beside me at her reaction to him… well, it takes the rest of my already compromised patience not to go to her and smack her across her beautiful face.

Fortunately, Jasper reacts better than I do, and within seconds, everyone in the vicinity, including Rosalie, is completely relaxed. Carlisle, naturally, is the first one to realize what's going on.

"Are you doing that?" he asks me, his voice lethargic under the weight of Jasper's gift.

"No," I smile, "Jasper is. He'll stop if it'll make you more comfortable."

Carlisle nods, and instantly the tension is back in all of their features, though at least Rosalie refrains from growling this time.

"I'm sorry, we're being terribly rude," Carlisle says as he steps in front of Esme and extends his hand to me. "My name is—"

"Carlisle," I finish, taking his hand in mine. "I know. I know all about you and your family. That's why we're here. My name is Alice, and this is Jasper," I say, inclining my head towards him.

At first, Carlisle looks, understandably, confused. But, just like I knew it would, his compassion and curiosity eventually win out, and I feel his hand relax in mine.

"Well Alice, Jasper," he says, offering us both a genuine smile, "it appears we have much to discuss. Perhaps you'd better come inside."

I take Jasper's hand in mine and follow Carlisle and Esme into the house. Rosalie watches us pass before walking to the door and slamming it shut with unnecessary force. _She's protecting her family, she's protecting her family_ I repeat in my head, trying to excuse her rudeness.

Her behavior is instantly forgotten the minute we step into the living room, and I recognize the room that has been the backdrop to my most prominent vision. The enormous Christmas tree stands at the back of the room, its top branches reaching all the way up to the cathedral ceiling. Wreaths and garlands hang from the walls, and every available surface—including to the glossy surface of the grand piano—is decorated with bows and candles and ornaments. It's hard to believe, even now, that somewhere I've never been before can feel so much like home.

"Please, take a seat," Carlisle says, indicating one of the white couches in the center of the room. He and Esme sit across from us on one of the other couches while Rosalie stands leaning against the far wall, her narrowed eyes shifting uneasily between me and Jasper.

"So, Alice," Carlisle begins, once we're all settled, "you said before that knowing us is what brought you here. Perhaps you could elaborate on that."

I feel Jasper squeeze my hand as he sends me a wave of reassurance, but all of his concern is necessary. This is one explanation, at least, that I've had many years to prepare for.

With as much detail as possible, I recount how I woke up to my new life, how I discovered what I was, and how I survived for the twenty-eight years before I met Jasper. I describe my visions and how they work, and I describe seeing Jasper and their family, and how I knew that we were all meant to be together. As I speak, Carlisle and Esme grow visibly more fascinated by my explanations.

"So you don't remember anything of your human life? Your transformation?" Carlisle asks when I'm finished, his golden eyes sparkling with wonder.

I shake my head.

"You poor dear," Esme says softly, her voice already full of love.

"And you were always able to see us?" Carlisle asks again.

"Yes," I nod, "you were always quite clear to me. I always knew that I'd end up with you someday, it just… well, it took us awhile to get here."

"Amazing," he says, shaking his head.

Suddenly Rosalie pushes herself off the wall and takes a step towards us.

"Does he speak?" she asks, pointing her finger at Jasper, but directing her question to me.

'Rosalie!" Esme chides, looking somewhat mortified.

"Well," Rosalie continues, her voice accusatory, "he walks in here looking like he's been in about a hundred battles, and he hasn't even _tried_ to explain himself yet. Doesn't that _bother_ you at all?"

I feel Jasper shift uncomfortably next to me, and with his free hand he begins to rub the two scars above his left eyebrow.

"Actually, it was four hundred and ninety seven," he says quietly, "… battles, I mean."

I hear Esme gasp in surprise, and see Rosalie shrink back against the wall. Only Carlisle retains his composure.

"But your eyes," he says, matching Jasper's soft tone, "surely that hasn't been your way of life for a very long time now."

Jasper smiles up at him, though I know him well enough to see that this smile doesn't touch his eyes.

"No, I left all that behind me years ago, though of course you have every right to know that I was born and bred into a life that had only one purpose: to kill. As you no doubt can tell, I lived such a grisly life for many years. But you see, 'fore Alice, I didn't know I had a choice—I was survivin' the only way I knew how. But after she found me, well… everythin' changed. Yours is a lifestyle I'm not fully used to yet, but it's a life that is far more wonderful than anythin' I had any right to hope for."

I release Jasper's hand and wrap my arm tightly around his waist, pulling him close against my body and resting my head on his chest. As I did in the woods, I push all the love I have for him outwards, and within seconds, I feel him relax again as a wave of adoration washes over me. We both smile, and out of the corner of my eye, I see that Esme and Carlisle are beaming at us as well.

"Well Esme," Carlisle says, taking her hand, "what do you think?"

Esme simply nods, already smiling at Jasper and I with all the affection and devotion of a mother.

"Rose?" Carlisle asks.

Rosalie grimaces at us from her position against the wall.

"You've already seen it happening, right?" she asks me, her voice full of a sarcasm that I ignore since I already know what her answer will be. I nod at her, smiling.

"Well, then I guess we've really got not choice," she says, throwing up her hands and storming out of the room.

Once she's gone, Carlisle turns to us apologetically.

"I'm sorry, you'll have to forgive Rosalie. She'll get used to the idea, I promise. And I'm sure, when she does, she'll be thrilled to have another brother… and a sister."

Despite Jasper's best efforts to calm me down, I begin positively bouncing with anticipation the moment the word "sister" escapes Carlisle's mouth.

"We can stay?" I ask, my voice about an octave higher than it usually is due to my excitement.

"Of course. We'd be honored to have you as part of our family."

"Thank you! Thank you!" I cry, flying into Carlisle's arms. "I promise you won't regret this!"

Carlisle and Esme both laugh as I move between the two of them, hugging them and thanking them alternately

"She's…"

"Enthusiastic, yes," says Jasper, smiling at me as he stands to shake Carlisle's hand. "You get used to it. Sort of."

Jasper then offers his hand to Esme but, to his surprise and my infinite pleasure, she wraps her arms around him in a timid, but sincere embrace. His eyes widen a little at first, but eventually he relaxes and returns her gesture with an equal degree of sincerity.

"Oh!" Esme suddenly exclaims, pulling back from Jasper and looking apologetically at me, "You two will be needing a room. We'll have to clear one out for you. It's no problem, of course, but it might take a little while. I hope you don't mind?"

"Not at all," I say as I resume my place at Jasper's side. "We'll help. In fact, I already have one in mind."

***************************************

Jasper stands behind me, his arms wrapped around my shoulders and his chin resting on my head. Through the window, we can see the treetops of the forest below us, and, beyond where the trees stop, moonlight dances on the crests of waves, making it appear as though the distant ocean were filled with stars. I sigh in contentment, which makes Jasper hug me closer against his chest.

"Are you happy?" he asks me, his voice just above a whisper.

"You know I am," I say, leaning back into him. "Are you?"

He hums against the top of my head as he presses his lips into my hair. We stand in silence for a few more moments before I speak again.

"The other two will be here in three minutes."

I feel Jasper stiffen around me, obviously nervous.

"Don't worry," I say, as I turn around to face him, "they'll like us too. I promise. Emmett especially—you're going to like him right away."

Jasper grimaces.

"That's not exactly what I was worried 'bout," he says, to which I raise my eyebrow. "Well, won't the other one—Edward—won't he be mad 'bout what we've done with his room?"

I laugh as I look at the bare room around us. At first, Carlisle and Esme were reluctant to give up Edward's room without his permission. But I'd assured them that, given a little persuasion, he wouldn't mind, so eventually they'd agreed. Even Rose helped us move his things, though this was probably done in a somewhat malicious effort to both annoy Edward and get him to dislike me at the same time. However, whatever her intentions, she'd agreed to help, and so it only took the five of us two hours to move Edward's things from his room on the third floor into the garage. But, since all the things we had shipped here from the East won't arrive at the house until tomorrow, for now, our room remains bare.

"No," I smile reassuringly at Jasper, "I promise he'll be okay with it after I talk to him. Edward and I are going to be great friends."

"If you say so," Jasper sighs, planting another kiss on my head. Below us, we hear the door open as Emmett and Edward enter the house.

"They already know everything," I tell Jasper, "Carlisle explained it to Edward when they got close enough to the house for Edward to hear, and Edward explained it all to Emmett. They'll be up here soon to meet us. Oh, and Jasper?" I whisper, seconds before I hear Emmett on the stairs, "Let Emmett win a few, will you?"

Jasper looks at me, confused, but I just smile at him as Emmett appears in the doorway.

"Wow," he says, taking in the empty room, "they weren't kidding. You really kicked him out of his room." I shrug my shoulders, which makes Emmett laugh. "Ha! Good for you," he says, smiling at us. "I'm Emmett, by the way, but I guess you already knew that."

"Alice," I say, returning his smile, "And this is Jasper."

When Emmett looks at Jasper, a small smile starts to stretch across his face.

"Carlisle says you're pretty tough—says you're probably a pretty good fighter."

Jasper immediately picks up on Emmett's mock-confrontational tone and smiles accordingly.

"Yeah, I reckon I'm pretty decent," he says, "though I'm a bit outta practice."

Emmett laughs a great booming laugh and throws an arm around Jasper's shoulder.

"Well, we can change that. Come on, Jazz, I'll show you how tough us Cullen boys are."

_Jazz, hmmm, that's an interesting nickname_.

Jasper shoots me a sly grin as he allows Emmett to lead him out the door, finally understanding my earlier request. I smile at his as I watch them leave, silently making a note to thank Emmett someday for so quickly including Jasper in the family.

"You don't need to do that, you know," a velvety voice speaks from the hallway, "If Jasper's willing to put up with him, that's all the thanks he'll require."

"Hello, Edward," I smile as Edward appears in the doorway.

"Alice," he nods. In one glance he takes in his empty room and then shoots me a very pointed look.

I shrug. "It had the best view."

_And besides_, I add in my head, _imagine how angry it'll make Rosalie when you convince Esme to convert her workspace over the garage into your new bedroom._

Edward smirks at this. "Huh. I've been trying to get her to give up that room for months. Esme will really go for it?"

I nod. _Of course, it's only fair._

Edward laughs as he walks into the room and stands by me at the window. A vision of him asking me a question about Jasper suddenly flashes to my eyes, and as soon as I see it, Edward gasps and turns to stare at me.

"Is that what it's like?" he asks, his voice slightly agitated, "I heard—I _saw_ myself ask the question in your mind, but I never even spoke it. Is that what it's always like for you?"

I smile at him. "I suppose. Jasper and I are so comfortable with it, I forget how it must seem to those who don't know me—how it must seem to you especially, since you can see it too. I can try to tone it down, if you'd like."

Edward shakes his head. "No… that's not it. It's just… I wonder… could you show me more?"

I smile and look back out into the darkness. _Sure,_ I think, _what do you want to see?_

"Show me tomorrow," he says, closing his eyes.

So I do. I show him images of Esme and Rosalie taking me shopping, I show him how he and Carlisle will clear out Roslaie's workspace while we are gone, I show him Emmett demanding a rematch from Jasper, and I show him snow falling on the seven of us as we decorate the outside of the house.

_More_? I ask, when tomorrow's visions come to an end. He nods.

So I allow my visions to drift further into the future. I show him some of the places we'll live and some of the schools we'll attend. I show him trips we'll go on and people we'll meet. I allow every vision I've ever had to pass in front of my eyes, so that, before I even realize it, I've shown him glimpses of the next thirty years of his life. When I look at him again, I see that his expression has dissolved from amusement into sadness.

"All of that," he says, opening his eyes, "all of that will really happen?"

I furrow my eyebrows, not really understanding what part of his future he doesn't like. All I've shown him are images of the seven of us, living happily together, in almost perfect harmony.

"The future is flexible," I explain carefully, not wanting to upset him any further, "it can always change. What I've just shown you—those are, for the most part, decisions that have already been made. Carlisle already has a pretty good idea of where we're going to be moving for the next few years, and Esme already knows the houses we'll live in. I'm only able to show you the futures that have already been set in motion by our actions in the present."

Edward lifts the corner of his mouth into a sad smile and runs his fingers through his bronze hair.

"I see. Thank you for showing me. That was… fascinating."

He turns to leave the room, but just as he does so, another vision—a _new_ vision—flashes before my eyes. In it, I see Edward in a room I've never seen before. He is lying on a small bed next to a figure that is indecipherably blurry and fuzzy, but that could possibly be a girl. A girl with long, brown hair.

"What was _that_?" Edward says, quickly snapping his body around to face me.

I shake my head.

_I don't know_. _I've never seen anything like that before._

"Show me again," he says, placing his hands on my shoulders. "Please, Alice, show me again."

I do, though the vision remains cloudy and indistinct. But as I watch it with him again and again, I finally begin to understand exactly what it is we're seeing, and why this vision elicits a different reaction from him than anything else I've shown him. I remove his hands from my shoulders, and take a step back from him, clearing my mind.

"I don't know what that is, Edward, but I think I know what it means. That's how I first saw Jasper—all blurry and unclear. It wasn't until we were both ready to find each other that I began to see him more clearly."

"So what you're saying…?" Edward asks, his voice uneasy, but hopeful.

_What I'm saying is that you won't always be alone. Someday, you'll find someone too. It's already been decided._

Edward sighs and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, a large, crooked smile has appeared on his face.

"So I guess that means you're okay with us takin' your room then," says Jasper, who has suddenly appeared in the doorway, though of course both Edward and I already knew he was there.

"Absolutely," Edward says, winking at me before he turns to face Jasper, "I wouldn't want to deny my favorite sister anything—especially not on her first day."

Jasper smiles as he walks over and wraps his hand around my waist.

"I'd be careful 'bout that if I were you, Edward. She tends to go a little overboard when you give her free rein."

"I'll keep that in mind," Edward laughs over his shoulder as he walks out the door, closing it behind him, leaving Jasper and I alone again in our new room.

"Favorite sister?" Jasper questions, once Edward's footsteps have disappeared down the stairs.

"Don't worry," I tease, elbowing him in the side, "you're already Rosalie's favorite brother."

Jasper looks at me incredulously. "She hasn't said one word to me since we've been here!"

"I know," I say wryly, "but at least she isn't planning on donating all of your stuff to charity when it arrives, which is more than I can say for Edward's things when she finds out that he's taking over her room above the garage."

_I hope you heard that, Edward_, I add in my head. A low chuckle coming from somewhere downstairs assures me that he has.

"So," Jasper says, pulling us both down to the floor so that he's cradling me in his lap, "what are you gonna do now?"

I tilt my head to the side, not quite understanding his question.

"Well," he clarifies, "for the first time in your life, you have nothin' to search for—no lost souls to try'n save, no family to find. So what're you gonna do with yourself now?"

I consider this for a moment. He's right. My whole life has been spent in the pursuit of a future. _This _future. Only now that my future has finally become my present… well, I suppose I haven't really thought about what I'm going to do.

"If you don't mind," Jasper whispers softly against my neck as be begins running his fingers up and down my arm, "I think I have a few ideas."

I smile as I wrap my legs around his waist press my lips to his.

Living in the present… This is something I could get used to.


	20. Jasper: December 24th, 1950

**A/N: Last chapter! *tear*! I'm not going to say my farewells yet--I still have two epilogues to go. They're both going to be short, drabblish, and I hope to have them both done by tomorrow.**

**Did y'all figure out the final thing that Jasper has to narrate? I hope not. If you figure it out along with him, it'll be more fun. Warning--especially for you, runted: there's some necessary fluff in this chapter.  
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**Reviewers. Wow. You honestly leave me speechless with gratitude. You can't imagine how much it means to me to know that people are not only reading this, but enjoying it as well. Thank you so much for your kind words.**

**Yup, you guessed it. Stephenie Meyer owns it all.

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Jasper**

On our first day together, I asked Alice about her human past. In answer, she had presented me with a small scrap of paper that had been torn apart but pasted back together. She'd told me the sad story of how she'd woken up in a dark cottage, completely alone, without even the dim memories of her human life to sustain her. In the confusion of her first night, her name was the only thing she knew for sure.

To my surprise, she'd recounted her story, not with sorrow or malice, but with an overwhelmin' sense of pride. The way she saw it, she'd started with nothin' but a name, and she'd spent her whole life tryin' to make that name mean somethin' worthwhile, somethin' good. Seein' her now, no one could doubt that she's succeeded.

Me, I've never cared too much 'bout names. I suppose part of that comes from bein' named after a rock, though if I'm bein' honest with myself, I guess Jasper fits me just about right. I saw a jasper once—Maria'd found one on a necklace that belonged to a woman she'd killed, and brought it back to me as… a joke I guess. The deep white indentations that marred the otherwise beautiful red surface of the stone were only too similar to the marks that lined my own skin; I'd crushed the rock into powder the moment Maria handed it to me. After that, I never really thought 'bout names anymore.

So I wonder why Carlisle's suggestion that Alice and I adopt the names "Cullen" and "Hale" respectively is so unnervin' to me.

It shouldn't be, really. I haven't had a last name in eighty-seven years; I never needed one before. Even when I'd found Alice I hadn't bothered with a surname because I was never around humans enough for it to be an issue. Now that it's necessary, I suppose Hale suits me just as well as anythin' else. And Alice has been callin' herself Cullen ever since she saw herself becomin' a part of their family. It's all a little different, sure, but it's nothin' for me to get upset over.

And yet I find that I am. The thought crosses my mind that callin' me Hale is like sayin' that I'm not part of the family. But just as soon as I think it I feel embarrassed for even considerin' it. It's Rosalie's name after all—her _real_ name. It makes sense for the two of us to share it 'cause out of all us "siblings" we look the most alike. And I can feel everythin' that Carlisle and Esme feel, and I know that, although they've only known me'n Alice for a few days, they already care for us deeply. They'd never make any decision that upsets their children, and the fact that I even briefly thought Carlisle guilty of treatin' me like an outsider is shameful.

_So what then? What about these names makes me so uncomfortable?_

"Jasper?" Alice's soft voice interrupts my thoughts. When she comes to sit by me on our bed I can feel concern rollin' off her in waves. She wraps one arm around me and leans her head on my shoulder.

"Don't tell me you're fine," she says, which of course, was exactly what I was 'bout to say. "You're not happy. Tell me what's wrong."

I sit silently, not really knowin' how to explain to her what I can't even figure out for myself.

"If it's about the names," Alice guesses 'fore I have to say anythin' at all, "I'm sure no one would mind if you were a Cullen instead of me. Rosalie and I could probably pass as sisters, and I don't mind the name Hale."

I smile at her, mostly for her assumption that she and Rosalie could ever be mistaken for biological sisters—apart from their similarly pale skin and golden eyes, I don't suppose two people could possibly look less alike.

"That's not it," I say, takin' her hand and squeezin' it reassuringly.

"What then?" she asks, refusin' to let it go.

Downstairs I hear Edward begin playin' an unfamiliar Christmas carol on the piano. It's no surprise to me that I don't recognize it—the words to all the songs I knew as a boy disappeared the moment Maria bit down on my neck. But the rest of the family knows it—I can hear 'em startin' to join in singin'—and Alice must know it too 'cause she begins hummin' it as soon as Edward starts to play.

I don't want her to miss this. This was her first vision—the seven of us standin' around singin' carols on our first Christmas Eve as a family. No silly problem of mine has any right to take this moment from her. Especially when I don't even know what the hell the problem is.

"Everythin's fine," I say, standin' up and takin' her hand, "C'mon, let's go spend Christmas with our family."

_I_ think I sounded pretty sincere, but apparently, she's not convinced.

"Not until you tell me what's wrong," she insists, not movin' from the bed.

"I don't _know_ what's wrong," I tell her, shruggin' my shoulders.

"I think I might," she says quietly, pullin' me back down on the bed. After a minute, she lays her head back down on my shoulder.

"What was _your_ name?" she asks.

My head jerks up at her question, not because it upsets or angers me, but because it catches me off guard. This is somethin' I've not thought about for a very long time, and it takes me a moment to come up with the answer.

"Whitlock," I finally say, "my name was Whitlock."

She sits quietly for a minute as the sound of my name reverberates in the air. Obviously she thinks this name will be the answer to my problems. But the simple act of sayin' it aloud does nothin' to ease my sense of discomfort, so I wait patiently for her explanation.

"You know," Alice eventually says, speakin' softly into my chest, "the name's only part of the show, Jasper. When Emmett and Rosalie live on their own they call themselves McCarty… and back when Edward and Esme were pretending to be brother and sister, Edward used the last name Masen. I'm sure no one would mind if you wanted to keep your name."

I consider this for a moment. This _has_ to be it—it's the only answer that fits. I must be so reluctant to take another name because somewhere, deep down, I don't wanna let go of the few parts of myself that remind me of my human life. Even though I haven't used the name Whitlock in years, part of me must not want to let it go.

"Maybe you're right," I say, "maybe I should keep my name. Do you think Carlisle will mind?"

"Absolutely not," she says, clearly happy that she has diagnosed my problem, "he'll understand. But first," she says, reachin' up and turnin' my head towards her, "I have to make sure _I _like it."

She takes my face in her hands and studies me with mock seriousness. Finally, she releases me and nods her head decisively.

"Jasper Whitlock," she says, smilin', "I _guess_ I could get used to that."

And from her lips, it _does_ sound right. I smile, finally relaxed, and lean forward to press a kiss to her forehead.

Downstairs, the song Edward's playin' changes into a familiar tune that I at least recognize, though I still can't remember any of the words.

"Come on," Alice laughs, grabbin' my hand and pullin' me out of our room, "I don't want to miss this one."

I laugh with her as I allow her to lead me out of the room and down the stairs.

"You know," I say, as we reach the last step, "you really shouldn't make fun of it, Alice. Whitlock was a very well—"

I break off, mid-sentence and stand frozen in place at the entrance to the livin' room. I was gonna tell her somethin' 'bout how Whitlock was a well-respected name in Houston, but none of that matters now. Hearin' those words together—_in that order_—has shown me the real reason I've been so bothered 'bout the names Carlisle gave us.

_Alice Whitlock_.

It's not _my_ last name I care 'bout. I could be Jasper Cullen or Jasper Hale, or Jasper Whitlock and it wouldn't make a lick of difference to me. It's _hers_. Whatever my last name is, I want it to be hers as well. When we were livin' together, mostly secluded from the rest of the world, things like this didn't matter. Then, I was Jasper and she was Alice and that was all the assurance we needed that we were gonna be together for the rest of our lives. But now, now we're livin' in a different world, and suddenly last names mean a great deal. If Emmett and Rosalie can share a last name when they're not tryin' to keep up human pretenses, then I want for me'n Alice to share a name as well. And with our family, and with the friends for whom we don't have to pretend to be brother and sister, I want Alice to be known as my _wife_.

"Oh!" Alice cries, turnin' around to look at me, her golden eyes wide with surprise. I can only imagine the visions she's just seen flash through her head—a long aisle lined with white roses, Esme and Rosalie standin' next to her in bridesmaid dresses, Emmett and Edward on the other side of the alter in tuxedos, Carlisle givin' her away into my hand, the two of us dancin' together for the first time as man and wife…

I want all of that. All of that and more. My life before Alice was a wasted one—for eighty-five years I was only survivin'—I was never truly _alive_. But when I met her, it was like I started breathin' again, and in the nearly three years since I've known her, I've finally started to _live_. Life for me makes sense only when she's in it, and though I may live for eternity, I don't want to spend a single second of it without her.

_I want to marry her_.

As soon as I think it, Alice throws herself into my arms with a force that would have knocked us both to the floor had I not stumbled back into the wall instead. The emotions that radiate from her as she alternates between laughin' and cryin' into my neck are enough to assure me of her answer without me ever havin' to ask the question.

I'm so content with just holdin' her against me that it takes me several minutes to remember that we have an audience. Apart from Edward's piano playin', the livin' room has gone completely silent.

"Are they all right?" I hear Esme whisper.

"He asked her to marry him," Edward smirks before either Alice or I have a chance to answer.

When the room remains silent, I hear him chuckle softly.

"She said 'yes,'" he adds, almost as an afterthought.

And then Alice isn't the only one attemptin' to knock a hole in the wall. Suddenly Esme has us both wrapped in her tiny arms, and Carlisle and Emmett are both poundin' me on my shoulders. Even Rosalie is tryin' to work herself in between me'n Alice so that she can give Alice a hug. Edward alone is content to offer his congratulations from a distance by hammerin' out the familiar Weddin' March on the piano.

Eventually, things do begin to calm down. Once all the congratulatory words have been said, we all, at Alice's insistence, migrate over to the piano to continue our Christmas celebrations. This is, after all, a moment she's been waitin' on for many years.

But as the others sing, I find that I can't take my eyes off of Alice's face. She is positively glowin' with joy, and to know that I'm at least partially the reason for that… well, I don't expect you could find a happier man on earth right now.

Alice squeezes my hand in hers and looks up to meet my gaze.

"What are you thinking?" she asks, so quietly that only I can hear.

I grin down at her and pull her tightly against my side.

"Alice Whitlock," I say.

_I guess I could get used to that._


	21. Epilogue: Alice: June 5th, 2006

**A/N: Okay, so here they are. Not even really necessary--just drabbles to bring everything back around to where it started. Oh, and, according to the Twilight Lexicon, the June 5th date is accurate.  
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**I want to thank all of my reviewers because you guys are the reason I kept this going. You were all so very kind to me. I couldn't have asked for a better audience for my first foray into the fanfiction universe. **

**As for upcoming projects, I have two one-shots in mind. But seriously, I've done absolutely no work for the past couple of weeks, so I need to take care of some stuff before I even consider writing anything else. On the plus side, I wrote the twenty chapters of this story (twenty-two if you count the epilogues!) in less than twenty days... so I feel a rather satisfying sense of accomplishment in that regard.  
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**Oh, Stephenie Meyer... will you ever stop owning it all? Doubtful.  
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_"Healing may not be so much about getting better, as about letting go of everything that isn't you - all of the expectations, all of the beliefs - and becoming who you are._"_  
-- Rachel Naomi Remen

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_**Alice**

"_That's a nice story… I mean the last part. The happy ending with Alice."_

Yes, it is a nice story. But Jasper tells it wrong. He makes it seem as though he were the only one who needed rescuing.

When we met, I, too, was damaged. And like him, I had the scars to prove it. A gaping hole in my heart where love should have been. A thousand tiny scars on my soul—one for each 'goodbye' I'd ever had to say. A deep crevice in my mind that erased all the memories of happiness I'd ever had.

But when he took my hand, he healed me. He healed my heart by giving me his. He healed my soul by promising to stay with me forever. And now, my mind is not only full, but overflowing with happy memories of the years we've shared together.

Everything I am, I am because of him.

In my life,

Jasper has made all the difference.


	22. Epilogue: Jasper: June 5th, 2006

"_What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from."  
--T.S. Eliot

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**Jasper**

"_That's a nice story… I mean the last part. The happy ending with Alice."_

Yes, it is a nice story. But Bella has missed its meanin' if she believes it to be a story about an end.

I had nothin' when Alice found me; my end had already come and gone.

Takin' her hand was the beginnin'—the beginnin' of hope, of trust, of joy, of love. She was the start of _life_, the start of everythin' that matters.

For my life,

"_Alice has made all the difference."_


End file.
